


The Losers Club and the Host of Fear

by FaithNoMoar, sedanley



Series: Scars on Palms [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:24:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaithNoMoar/pseuds/FaithNoMoar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sedanley/pseuds/sedanley
Summary: Eleven year-old Bill Denbrough didn't have a life plan—there were just certain things he'd expected to happen.Finding out he was a wizard was far from one of them.And despite having his entire world turned on its head, the threats against his life, and a thought-gone terror that looms over the wizarding world—he's not afraid.Especially not with his six new friends by his side.





	1. Not Alone

Eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was lost.

Not _ lost _ lost in the way that a kid gets when they’re walking around with their parents, look away for a second, and then they’re gone—No, for that to happen, his parents would have had to have been with him in the first place. Which, as he wandered through the unfamiliar parts of London, they were not. 

He’d last said goodbye to them—and his five year-old brother, George, who he affectionately called Georgie—at the train station back home in Bristol, with Georgie promising he’d write.

The whole thing had been a whirlwind, really—because Bill, until earlier this year, had considered himself to be a relatively ordinary boy.

He performed well enough at school, even if his parents weren’t always completely inclined to care much about his studies—and for the record, he thought himself a bit of an above average reader and writer (but he’d never admit it aloud). He wasn’t particularly athletic, but liked sitting and trying to explain the rules of sports to Georgie or taking runs outside. He’d lived with his normal parents in Bristol all his life—his dad, an electrician, and his mum, a musician—and, despite his less than stellar relationship with them, he was happy.

Bill expected to continue his studies through further education, apply to a university to write, or maybe draw—he was ten, he wasn’t sure yet but he was positive he wasn’t going to study maths—move from home into a dormitory, or maybe a flat of his own, and go back home to visit Georgie every so often.

It’s not that he had his life planned out—he was far from a planner—but it’s just what he expected to happen.

It became very clear that was no longer Bill’s path on his eleventh birthday earlier that year, when an older man in strange clothes had knocked on Bill’s door. Called himself _ Professor Tudor Maturin, _ said he was from a place called _ Hogwarts _—

Said Bill was a _ wizard_.

Which was most definitely something that Bill thought was just a part of his wild imagination. Like when he wrote stories. 

He said all the strange things Bill had done—things he’d never brought up to anyone else because he was _ sure _ it was in his head, results of an overactive imagination and far too little sleep—were magic. And that next school year he’d be headed to Hogwarts. A school for wizards, and witches and other _ not normal _people.

And while newly minted eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was in awe at the words being spoken to him—the instructions given to him and his parents on how to get to a place called _ Diagon Alley _where he’d get all his school supplies—his parents were less than enthused. Not in the sort of way that they would stop him from going, not anger or distaste, but, truly, it seemed, there wasn’t a way that they could manage to care less about this seemingly astronomical change in their eldest son’s life.

Bill would be more surprised if that hadn’t generally been their attitudes toward him his entire life—though there was a part of him that had hoped that this big, wild, revelation would finally sway their emotions in one direction or another. Any reaction would be better than nothing, he thought. Still, he was faced with apathy.

Georgie, on the other hand, had a thousand questions—ones Bill himself didn’t even have answers for, but swore he’d answer as best he could as soon as he could by letter, as long as Georgie pinky-swore to keep his secret. 

Which his little brother had done, tears in his five year old eyes as he said goodbye to Bill at the Bristol railway station, pinky swearing on their secret and hugging his legs tight—causing Bill to nearly miss his train, and certainly agitating their parents, who’d already been off-put with the idea of having to take Bill and his things to the station, nonetheless that Georgie insisted on walking him to the platform. And while Zack and Sharon Denbrough were emotionally distant with their older son, neither particularly were fond of the idea of letting George run through the station on his own.

So Georgie had gotten his goodbye, shooting his brother a tearful, excited wave as he’d finally gotten on the train, even going so far as to run after it as it pulled away, as far as the platform would take him until he, his blonde hair and yellow raincoat were just spots in the distance for Bill.

He read most of the two hour train ride to London—

—But London, despite Bill never having been there, was not where he’d gotten lost. Nor was it in his travels into, and through, Diagon Alley. Professor Maturin had been quite clear—and really, Bill had been so eager, he doubted he would’ve forgotten a step of the instructions (though he’d written them that first night in a notebook, just to be safe). 

He _ looked _lost, sometimes—a lanky sort of a boy in his flannel and jeans, blue eyes constantly in awe of the people in flowing robes and tall hats, children his age and older all clearly at different stages of their own journeys, reading the signs on every shop as he tried to figure out where to get every item on his list.

It’d taken much longer than it should’ve—considering he’d had to backtrack after his first shop with the allowance for the year he’d been given, discovering that you couldn’t trade pounds for cauldrons—but once that’d been fixed, he found a sort of peace in wandering through the shops. 

It was like everything in his life had suddenly clicked. 

The discomfort at home, with his parents, with other children at school—it was because this was where he belonged. A tug at his heart reminds him that he hopes—really hopes—he’d be able to show this all to Georgie someday. His brother was the only thing from home, the only thing about being alone that he really felt like missing.

Bill tries to push to the back of his mind the idea that he might, though, be the only child here on his own.

Still, the messy auburn-haired boy in a little too large flannel pushed through, gathering his things into a luggage cart he’d gotten—first books, then robes, supplies (including a grey owl he delightedly named _ Silver _ , after his bike, his constant companion back home)—cauldrons, quills, parchment, a _ wand _ of his very own, _ giddy _ in a wonderful nervous sort of a way as he weaved his way through the unfamiliar shops, looking up and down at the list that came with his letter.

So maybe, yes, eleven year-old Bill Denbrough was a _ little _ lost in Diagon Alley. And alone. But in a content sort of way.

The contentment seemed to wash away, though, as he started to realize quite how long he was taking—the leisurely gait he’d previously established becoming a bit more hurried as he gathered the last few things on his list, gloves he’d forgotten, a winter cloak—before making his way back out of Diagon Alley the way he’d come, towards Kings Cross Station.

Diagon Alley wasn’t where he’d gotten lost.

No, the regular-world train station was where he found himself absolutely confused and flabbergasted with approximately _ zero _ idea of where he needed to be going beyond a simple platform number on the ticket. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Which, according to the list of platforms on the arrivals and departures boards...didn’t exist.

If it weren’t for man who’d come to his home, knowing so much about him, and the place he’d just been shopping, surrounded by other kids and their families and so much...magic, for lack of a better word, he’d be more convinced, distraught that he was the victim of an awful prank. Goodness knows he’d been subjected to more than a few in his eleven years.

But there was too much evidence that this was real for Bill to immediately write this off as a prank and hop on a train back to Bristol. Professor Maturin, the students walking through Diagon Alley, the wand that was now packed among his trunks, Silver, his new owl, asleep in her cage on top of it all—

No, Hogwarts and everything that came with it—including Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—was real. Bill just...had to figure out how to get there. There were a few options he’d already checked off his list—asking a station manager, who seemed convinced between the question and his stutter that he was playing some sort of prank, looking on a map (several maps, really), which all produced no better result than the list of arrivals and departures—and going to Platforms Nine and Ten himself, because logically, between them would be situated Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

It wasn’t.

Which left Bill only minutes from departure time, lost, alone—a small boy with a cart of things triple his size—looking distressed and confused among the midday crowds, a short distance from Platforms Nine and Ten. It wasn’t that he’d given up—he was just in a stalemate. Without options, until—

“Tryna work up the courage t’run through?”

The voice is close to Bill’s ear—too close, and he practically jumps out of his skin, grip tight on his cart as he turns to see the person who spoke to him. Relief floods his system when he sees another boy about his age with a similar cart, a mop of black hair on his head, thick glasses and a delighted smile on his face, clearly thrilled at Bill’s reaction.

“Wh-what?” He quickly asks back, eyes spotting similarly delighted, if more confused, adults—the other boy’s parents, clearly—behind him, focused furiously on a map in their hands.

“Running through the wall to the platform. You’re just kinda standing there staring and y’kinda look like you might throw up on the ground, which, _ gross _—”

“—I-I’m not about to th-throw up, I’m just _ lost _—” The beginning of the other boy’s words finally catch up in Bill’s head. “—R-running through the w-wall?”

“—Am I wrong in assuming that the birdcage in your cart means we’re going to the same place? Because if I _ am _ wrong _ , _ I _ really _ wanna know what you're gonna do with th’owl.”

“N-no—I mean, _ yes _ , I th-think—” He pauses, letting his mind get on the same page. “—Yes, if y-you mean Hogwarts, but you _ completely _lost me on r-running through the wall.”

A sharp grin spread across the other boy's features, his grip tightening on the cart. “Y’know, you shouldn't just go around telling every crazy person who's saying you should run through the walls about some secret wizard school.”

And, without hesitation, the dark haired boy charges at the wall. What Bill sees hardly processes in time for him to tell the other boy to stop—really, his body just tightens, awaiting the crash, the sound of collision, the falling cart—but it never comes, his new companion simply disappearing into the slab of brick.

“What?” He gapes only a moment before he’s snapped out of the haze by other voices—the glasses boy's parents—behind him.

“—Richard’s always been a bit eager, go on, dear—” The woman coos, causing Bill to jump just slightly.

He casts the woman a cursory glance, still stunned by what he had just witnessed. And, despite having _ just _ seen this other boy _ —Richard _, his mind helpfully supplies—run through this wall, he can’t help but hesitate for a moment. 

“It’s alright,” The man chimes in, a warm smile on his face, “you’ll make it.”

Something about that smile—the tone in the man's voice—is all the confidence he needs. Maybe because he never really had a parent talk to him like that, or because at this point, after everything he's seen, why was _ this _ the craziest, and...really, what else did he have to lose?

(A lot, his rational mind thinks—there's Georgie, and his owl, Silver, and... somehow, yes, this strange new friend he's made. But Bill Denbrough had also always had an excessive—occasionally stupid—brave streak.)

So, returning the older man's smile with a small nod, he takes a deep breath, knuckles white on the handle to his cart—

And runs.

The next thing he knows, the light is warm. There's a faint scent of smoke. Crowds of people talking. When his eyes adjust, he's certain he's not in King's Cross anymore—surrounded by hundreds of other families whisking children onto a massive red train.

The station already felt more like home than Bristol ever had. He'd really like to bring Georgie here, someday.

He'd made it.

“I was starting t’think you’d chickened out! Nice of you to join me!” Bill's head finally snaps to attention hearing the other boy call, spotting him on the edge of the crown, waving enthusiastically, a sharp grin still on his lips.

Bill immediately makes his way over to the familiar face, his eyes still unable to stop wandering distractedly in awe around the crowds. “I d-don't chicken out,” He mumbles back, the corners of his lips turned up into a small smile.

“You certainly proved that.” He remarks before sticking his hand out, “I’m Richie, by the way. Richie Tozier.” 

”N-not Richard?” Bill replies, letting go of his cart to take the other boy's hand, a hint of teasing in his voice. The longer Bill stood in the crowd of people, it seemed more and more likely that he was right—

He was the only kid here on his own.

But suddenly, he wasn't feeling so lonely. He'd felt immediately comfortable with the boy, his too-large glasses, his excited parents, and this crowd of strangers. 

“I'm Bill. Denbrough.”

Richie rolls his eyes at the comment, but his smile betrays him as he squeezes Bill’s hand firmly, “It’s nice t’meet you, Bill. I can guarantee that I’m going t’be the best friend you’ve ever had.” 

Bill genuinely laughs at that—not because it's a preposterous concept, but... Richie just seems to have that sort of affect on him. “That w-won't be really hard,” He admits, grimacing. “B-but I think my little brother w-would probably try to fight y-you if he heard you s-s-say that.” 

Richie’s eyes light up at that, “You have a brother? I always kind of wanted a sibling, you know, being an only child can get real lonely when your parents won’t laugh at your brilliant jokes. If I had a sibling, I _ know _ they’d appreciate my humor, but at least now I have you--”

“Alright, Richard, don’t exhaust your new friend already.” Richie’s mother jokes, as her and Richie’s father finally catch up with the two of them. 

Richie groans, most likely from the use of his full name, and glances at her, “Ah, c’mon, Mum, Bill doesn’t mind. Do ya?” 

“—I d-don't mind, Mrs. Tozier,” He agrees, unable to wipe the grin off his face, eyes wandering back over to the tracks. “—Sorry if I've b-been a hassle, I've just n-never done this before—”

Their gazes soften and Richie takes a step closer to sling his arm around Bill’s shoulders, “You don’t need to apologize, mate. It’s my first year, too!”

Richie’s father smiles warmly, “It’s a new experience for all of us. It’s no bother at all to try and help you learn, too.” 

“We didn’t want to leave you there alone, dear. Please don’t worry yourself about it.” Richie’s mother adds, softly. 

Bill opens his mouth to respond—assuredly some ramble with too many questions and apologies they wouldn't have time for—but the loud noise of a steam whistle from the train interrupts him first, his blue eyes snapping over to the Hogwarts Express as a conductor starts to shout about a ten minute warning.

“—Thank you,” He simplifies kindly, looking at the two adults before turning his attention to Richie. “D-do you wanna get on to get s-s-seats, then?” 

Richie nods, “Don’t want t’get separated if the cabins start to fill too much.” 

He steps away from Bill, towards his parents, throwing his arms around their necks as they lean down to hug him. 

“_ Behave _.” They both say and Richie pulls back with a grin. 

Well, if the whole_ magic _ thing wasn't Bill's first indication, at least the next few years wouldn't be boring. (Or lonely.) 

“I will. Besides, I got good ol’ Bill to watch over me now, too,” He hurries back to Bill’s side, taking his hand, “Let’s get going!”

Before Richie manages to drag Bill off, though, his mum's voice cuts through the chaos. “—_Richard,” _She hums fondly, pushing his glasses up his nose again. “I know this is _exciting_, and _new_, but for goodness sake, don't forget to write.” She turns her attention to Bill. “Do remind him, would you, Bill?”

He gives her a firm nod, elbowing Richie lightly as he rolls his eyes, causing the other boy to jut his bottom lip out, in an obvious pout, grumbling, “Yeah, yeah, _ jeez _, so embarrassing sometimes--”

He can't help the slight pang in his chest at the sheer difference between this goodbye and Bill's goodbye with his own parents at the train station back home. 

“—And feel free to write us too, any time you like,” She adds. 

He wonders to himself if this was what people called mother's intuition.

“I w-will,” He replies, almost embarrassed at how quickly he does so. These people are practically strangers—though all friendships start somewhere, he thinks—but the warmth and welcoming in their demeanors and actions spoke volumes. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Richie starting to rock back and forth on his heels, grinning at the impatience in his voice as he asks, “Alright, _ now _ can we go?” 

“—Right, y-yeah—” He laughs, grabbing onto his cart again and starting to pull Richie away this time. “Thanks again! It was n-nice to meet you!” He calls back, giving a short wave as they disappear into the crowd. 

He follows Richie’s lead as they weave their way through all sorts of families— some in normal clothes, others in wizard clothes, some with owls, others with odd pets— on their way towards the baggage car. 

Richie rambles the entire time about this and that in a way that Bill already finds entirely too endearing—even if he's distracted enough to only be paying half attention. The two of them make quick work of loading their trunks before slipping onto the train itself. 

It feels as crowded on the train as it did off of it, packed with students, in varying years, reuniting and finding cars to sit in. Bill isn’t all that bothered by it, though—really, his mind is still somewhere else entirely, taking in every detail of the train around him.

The train feels like something out of an old book, all old fashioned wood and history, the same way the shops in Diagon Alley had felt. Like there was a story. And maybe it was just his excitement, but Bill would swear he could feel magic in the air as he and Richie continued to make their way through, slipping between the bustle of students.

“Keep your eyes open for an empty compartment,” he hears Richie say, glancing over his shoulder to nod, letting the other know he’d heard him.

His eyes scan the panes of frosted glass that look into each cabin as they go by, seeing shadows of other students one by one until about the third car through, where finally, peeking through the crack in a sliding door, he finds one. 

Bill stops in front of the empty compartment, pulling the door open completely for Richie to go through. “—Off to a g-good start.”

A toothy grin spreads across Richie’s face as he enters the compartment, Bill laughing as the other boy drops into the seats on one side and stretches his body across it, hands folded behind his head. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Billiam.” 

Bill sits across from him, letting the door slide shut and finally exhaling. He realizes then it's the first time he's really sat down since the train he took to London. It feels like years ago. 

Since then, he'd gained a wand, an owl, some books, robes, a new friend, and the comforting sense that he'd likely never feel quite as lost or alone as he had earlier ever again.


	2. The Right People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Richie's party of two becomes seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Losers.

“—Wait, so y-your parents aren't wizards, e-either?”

“Nope.” Richie replies, popping the ‘p’. 

In fact, the bespectacled boy came from a long, long line of Muggles, but his family was the furthest thing from _ ordinary_. Even if they weren’t plain, by any means, finding out that there were wizards and witches in the world was daunting. 

And this wasn’t Richie’s “is this your card” type of magic. This was _ really _ real magic with spells, mythical creatures (like dragons, Richie had enthusiastically pointed out in a book) and potions. It was as dangerous as it was exciting—almost too much for an eleven year old to fully comprehend. 

But, despite all of that, Richie Tozier’s parents had been nothing short of _ thrilled _ to learn their son was a wizard.

That was the thing that set Maggie and Wentworth Tozier apart as parents. Their support for their son, their _ only _son, was endless; even when it came to his wildest antics and most outrageous exploits. Wentworth adopted characters to go along with all his son's voice impressions, encouraging him to keep practicing them even if other kids didn’t like them. Maggie laughed at all of his jokes, even if they were downright awful. 

And on top of that, Richie's excitement was contagious.

That's how they found themselves morning of Richie’s departure with the world's largest tourist map of London—even though it didn't have anywhere they needed to be going on it. It's how they ended up in Gringotts for nearly an hour just looking around before they'd even started to exchange their “Muggle money”. It's how they'd ended up with a massive luggage cart completely over filled with every possible odd thing that had caught their eyes in Diagon Alley. And it's how, after Richie had finally caught another wizard running through the space between platforms nine and ten, they'd happened upon Bill Denbrough and taken him into their odd fold.

They were the sort of quintessential parents who were more than willing to take a confused looking boy in an oversized flannel under their wing when he needed help even if they were just as lost.

“M-mine too,” Bill hums, stretching to kick his feet up onto the bench where Richie's sprawled. “They're not n-nearly as supportive, though. M-my little brother Georgie was j-just jealous.”

“No offense, Bill, but your parents sound like they _ suck.” _Richie declares, bluntly. 

And Bill just _ laughs_. “You're...n-not wrong. Not sure if it's b-better or worse that it's n-not the _ wizard th-thing. _ They weren't m-mad, or disappointed, or f-freaked out, they just...c-continued not caring.” There's a silence between them for a moment before he snorts, voice positive. “They l-let me come, though. C-could be worse.”

A smirk spreads on Richie’s lips, “Well if they didn’t care, what reason would they have to _ not _ let you come?” 

“Exactly!” He exclaims. “—I w-was worried though, ‘til I was on the t-train t’London. I think they were j-just happy t’have me out of their h-hair,” He adds with a snort, looking out the window. “Your parents were r-really cool, though. They f-fit right in. —I mean that in a g-good way.” 

Richie laughs, good naturedly, but the emotion doesn’t quite reach his voice, “Trust me, I’d know if you meant that in a bad way.”

Bill frowns just slightly, his eyes still fixed out the window for a moment or two before gently kicking Richie's knee. “Hey—”

Both of their attention, though, is pulled away from the conversation by a brief knock on the door of the cabin, which slides open to reveal an awkward blonde boy.

“Hey, um—sorry, d’you guys have room in here?”

* * *

Ben Hanscom was _ extremely _ early for the Hogwarts Express.

He was expecting to be late—so late he'd miss it—between how long it usually took his grandmother to leave the house in the morning, visiting his parents, how distracted he knew he'd get in Flourish and Blotts—

But somehow, he was early.

Ben was no stranger to magic; his grandmother was a witch, his parents were wizards. It’d been around him every moment since he’d been a baby. He’d been taught little spells here and there when he was old enough that he could start to sound out words. He’d been allowed to consume book after book about all the things he might study when he was eventually able to go to Hogwarts.

And he’d taken every opportunity. By the time he’d gotten his letter, he’d read every textbook required for First Years. His copies were well loved, dog eared, and noted on practically every page.

He’d already been living with his grandmother for several years when that day came and, much like his parents before her, she’d supported him without hesitation. The day he’d finally leave for Hogwarts was bound to be a big event for them both.

So it didn’t go unnoticed by Ben that his grandmother had made a point to get up earlier to Floo to Diagon Alley in time and had already visited Gringotts to make sure they were ready to pick up the last of his things. Everything was done so efficiently that they’d had more than enough time to, well, _ take their time _ in Flourish and Blotts, his grandmother pulling from her own pocket to make sure every book that’d caught Ben’s attention ended up in his trunk.

As they finished in Diagon Alley and headed towards their usual Floo to St. Mungo’s, _ that _ was when it’d hit Ben that he was _ really _going.

He loved his family—truly, he did—but being homeschooled had meant he’d hardly spent any time with kids his age. Really, none at all. But seeing the crowds around Diagon Alley, seasoned students in their last few years and other to-be First Years like him—

It was simultaneously the most exciting and anxiety inducing prospect.

He carried the thought with him to St. Mungo’s, through the visit with his parents, and back towards King’s Cross...where they were an hour early and ended up stopping for a cup of tea.

“You alright, Benny?” His grandmother’s voice startles him out of his reverie and he forces his gaze back to her. 

“Oh, I’m—yes, I’m fine.” 

He already knows his answer is entirely unconvincing, especially from the fleeting, but stern look that crosses her face, and he sighs. 

“You know you can tell me anything.” 

“Of course I know that.” Ben insists, chewing his bottom lip for a moment. She says nothing further, clearly waiting for the explanation that he was bound to give her. Sometimes she knew him _ too _ well. 

“I’m worried about—about making friends,” He admits, after a long pause. 

Her gaze softens and she reaches across the table to place her hand over his, “I understand this new adventure is as scary as it is exciting for you. It’s okay to be afraid, Ben. But you’re a good, smart boy. You _ always _ have been. You’ll be okay. Trust your heart, it won’t lead you astray.” 

Ben offers her a warm smile, genuinely comforted by her words—even if, as a grandmother, she said what anyone might say in these moments. 

“Thank you, Grandma.” He whispers. He squeezes her hand once, before she pulls away, looking over Ben's shoulder.

“—About time we got you onto that train now, don’t you think?” 

Ben’s eyes widen as the passage of time suddenly hits him, turning over his shoulder to look at the clock tower just outside the coffee shop, “_ Yes, _ actually, considering we are now _ late—“ _

Well, not late yet—but if they didn't hurry, he would be—which would be _ ridiculous _considering how early they'd gotten here.

So they make their way through King's Cross as quickly as they can— with Ben's trunk and his grandmother being, well, his grandmother—maneuvering between crowds of Muggles and fellow wizards alike, onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. It's another _ this is real _ moment for Ben; seeing the train and knowing he's about to get on it. He turns back towards his grandmother— 

And, as if she knows, she says just the right thing. “Your mum and dad are so proud of you, you know. And so am I.”

It washes away his nerves—at least for the moment.

“I love you,” He whispers, immediately going in to hug her tightly.

“I love you, too. And I'll see you at Christmas, okay? I'm only an owl away,” She murmurs, pressing one last kiss into his hair before he's off towards the train.

He’d nearly toppled over his trunk trying to get it into the luggage car, rushing onto the train and only then allowing himself to pause and catch his breath. The sight was daunting—crowds of other students, already in groups, already friends, not a single familiar face. He uncomfortably paced down through the cars, every so often attempting to start a conversation and chickening out at the last moment.

_ You’re going to have to sit somewhere. You can’t just sit in the hall. _

Finally, he spots a cabin that doesn’t at least seem filled to the brim and knocks once before tugging the door open slightly—spotting two other boys seemingly around his age sitting across the two benches. Across every inch of the two benches. 

“Hey, um—sorry, d’you guys have room in here?”

One of the boys—the one with a mess of unruly black curls and too big glasses—sits up slightly, removing his feet from the bench. He glances at the other boy, before a grin spreads on his lips, “I’m only counting two of us in here, so I’d say there’s space for you still, kid.” The other boy pulls his feet down, too, a smile spreading across his features that makes Ben immediately smile, too—relieved.

“S-sorry about that,” He apologizes.

“Oh no, it's okay—I wasn't trying to be snarky about't or anything—” Ben rushes out, going to sit on the same bench as the boy with glasses, leaning against the wall with the door to look at the two of them. “First Year. Y'know. Trying to...make friends.” 

The boy next to him drops a hand down on his shoulder, tone utterly serious, as he says, “Welcome to the club, mate.” 

“I'm B-Bill,” The blue eyed boy across from him says. “And that's R-Richie. We only just m-m-met on the platform, but he won't l-leave me alone.”

Ben watches as Richie’s eyes widen— a sight that looks especially comical behind those large frames— and kicks Bill in the shin. “If it weren’t for me you’d still be trying to figure out how t’get to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, wanker.” 

Ben can't help cracking a smile at the exchange as Bill rubs his shin but keeps grinning, too. He takes a moment to look between the two of them—relieved it wasn't any sort of _ real _ altercation. “—I'm Ben,” He begins, looking to Bill again. “Have you never been here before?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, m'p-parents are—what was the w-word the lady in the sh-shop used?—they're not wizards. Neither's Richie's, but he j-just got better instructions.”

“Poor Billy Boy was out there all by himself. He was so lost until he had my guidance.” Richie sighs, dramatically.

Bill rolls his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t indulge the other boy’s antics, instead looking back at Ben. “—Are y-yours?”

“Oh—uh—” He's taken off-guard a moment—it's school, these are new friends, _ of course _he’s going to be asked about his family—”Yeah, they are. But I live with my grandmother—she's a witch, too.”

“How come you live with your grandmum—“ 

The door suddenly slides open, a boy clearly expecting an empty compartment standing in the hall. “—Oh, sorry, I'll just—”

* * *

Mike Hanlon's wanted to go to Hogwarts for as long as he can remember. It's where his parents met and fell in love, where they learned their magic—the very same magic that had flowed through every moment of Mike's life as seamlessly as the wind. He'd started reading tea leaves with his father when he was five, fake dueling with his mother when he was eight, flew his first broom, mostly, when he was ten.

Mostly meaning that while he _ had _ fallen, he did still _ technically _ fly. Though, he’d quickly decided it wasn't his strongest suit.

In spite of that, though, Mike remained undeterred. He approached every new piece of information, every new book, every _ possible _ bit of magic with as much wide-eyed wonder and optimism as he had before. So, while his skill with a broom had been lacking, he made up for it by instead learning about how to brew potions with his mother. He memorized the names of dozens of ingredients, studied and became competent in their uses, helped to organize and categorize a garden of them. If he botched a potion, he switched gears, opting to listen intently to his father discuss some of the history of magic, poring over worn texts as he did. 

William and Jessica Hanlon saw every failure not as a setback, but as an opportunity for growth, new focus, and discovery. Mike ingrained that creed into his very core.

Regardless of the fact that he had been preparing for Hogwarts ever since he was born, it didn’t change the elation he felt when his letter arrived on his eleventh birthday—solid proof that the thing he had been looking forward to most his entire life was _ finally _ happening. That morning he had woken and immediately sat himself by the door to wait for that very letter. As soon as he had it in his hands he’d torn through the house, a smile splitting his face, and tackled his father in a tight hug, crying tears of joy, “It’s here, _ it’s here _—”

His father laughs, but the joy is mirrored in his own expression as he pulls Mike close, murmuring fondly, “Of course it is, Mikey. There was never a doubt.”

His mother kisses the top of his head, smiling as she says, “I guess we're going to have to start shopping for you soon, then, yeah?”

Shopping was probably just a tad more exciting for a kid who had never been through Diagon Alley before, but a visit there was just another Thursday for him; often tagging along with his father for a day at work and errands. So, it became a tradition over the following months to, slowly but surely, start picking up all of Mike's Hogwarts supplies—if only because his parents knew day of he'd be impatient to get to the train. The kindly older woman who helped out in Madame Malkins chatted with him about how she could hardly believe it was his time to go while he was fitted for robes, and the shopkeeper in he and his mother's favorite potions shop made sure he had all the essentials on hand for his new cauldron.

By the time the first day of September rolled around, Mike had his trunk packed for nearly an entire month.

He'd known exactly how to walk through the wall between Platforms Nine and Ten, his parents following along right behind him. He'd prepared for this every single day—but there was nothing that could've prepared him for the sight of the Hogwarts Express, _ actually _ in front of him.

“Are you ready?” His mother teases fondly behind him.

He turns to look at her, rolling his eyes—but a fond smile still plastered on his face. “More than ready.”

“Make sure you take care’f yourself, alright Mike?” His father says gently—he’d always had a way of being soft with even the most serious subjects. “It’s all much safer now than when your mum and I were growing up, but you can never be too careful.”

Mike had heard stories and read books on the way the Wizarding World used to be—his voracious appetite for knowledge had him reading more and more, which made him fully aware of how right his father was. He was constantly grateful for the peace that he’d gotten to grow up in.

“He’s smart,” His mum coos gently, holding onto both her husband and son’s shoulders. “He’ll do just fine. Find good friends. Make the most of every moment.” And with that, she pulls the both of them fiercely into a hug, pressing a kiss to Mike’s head. 

“Now go on,” She continues, adjusting his jacket in that way mums always unnecessarily did before pulling back with a kind smile. “First year at Hogwarts.”

He couldn’t wait anymore. “Love you both tons—see you at Christmas!” With a huge grin on his face, he dashed towards the train. First, going to carefully stow away his belongings—a bit heavier than expected (who knew _ just one more _ book every couple days could weigh that much?)—before heading onto the train, quickly scanning the cabins as he passed through to find somewhere to sit. After all, he’d been early enough to hopefully get a place of his own—and wouldn’t have to worry about being a sudden addition to another group of friends

He spotted shadow after shadow, hearing chattering as he went from car to car before spotting one he hadn’t noticed any shadows in, excitedly pulling the door open—to three boys already in there.

Maybe he wasn't as early as he'd thought.

“—Oh, sorry, I'll just—” He quickly turns to step back out until a voice calls back from behind him.

“W-wait! You can stay—” He turns to see the boy in the plaid shirt calling after him. “N-none'f us really know anyone, s-so—you're welcome to j-join us.”

The bespectacled boy nods, grinning broadly, “Our club is always accepting new members!” 

“Wait, this seems like a pretty sad club—” The blonde boy adds with an awkward laugh.

“—I'll join anyway,” Mike decides, stepping in and closing the door behind him. He takes a seat next to the boy with auburn hair, regarding each of them for a moment before adding, “I'm Mike Hanlon.”

The boy with glasses gestures to himself with a flourish, “The name’s Richie Tozier—”

“I’m Ben.”

“Bill.”

“And you're all First Years, too?” Mike asks, setting his bag down on the floor. Their collective nods provide him with a comfort he hadn’t known he’d needed. His parents had always been best at reassuring him, but Mike hadn’t needed much of that before getting on the train. Deep down there was, truly, only one thing he had been worried about--and he hadn’t wanted to concern his parents with a thought like this so it had remained unspoken. It wasn’t the academics, not leaving home, not being sorted into his house, but, rather, it was about being an outsider. 

Somehow, though, he wasn’t quite as worried about that anymore. 

“—W-we were just talking about how B-Ben lives with his grandmother—”

“She's a retired herbologist,” He explains quickly, avoiding something Mike can't place. But the mention of herbology puts a smile on his face.

“My mum's a potioneer—she loves herbology, though, it's why we've got half'f the things she needs for work growing out back the house.”

Richie snorts. “My dad's just a dentist.”

“—Sorry, a _ what _?” Ben asks, his brow furrowed.

“—It's a muggle doctor for your teeth. I've read about them,” Mike quickly explains.

“W-wait, you don't have _ d-dentists?” _Bill asks, his voice laced with shock. 

“There's potions'n spells for keeping your teeth clean,” Mike replies with a small shrug. He'd always been impressed by the solutions muggle society had found for things that wizards could do with just a wand. 

The whole conversation seemed to pique Ben’s curiosity. “What d’your parents do, Bill?”

The taller boy shrugged a little. “My mum plays p-piano and my dad's a-an electrician?” He says, glancing back and forth between Mike and Ben trying to gauge the reaction to something he clearly saw as extraordinarily normal. 

“Wicked,” Ben breathed.

“Y'know there's no electricity at Hogwarts?” Mike says.

Richie’s jaw drops, “Blimey, so you mean I’ve got t’carry around a candle with me everywhere I go just so I can see? How the bloody hell are we meant t’get anything done—“

“—It's all magic.” Mike interjects, chuckling. “You'll manage just fine, I swear.”

“You're telling me wizards don't use e-electricity, either?” At this point, Bill looks more intrigued than shocked.

“Technology and magic don't really get on,” Mike continues. “S’why we use owls and the floo network for communicating.”

“... Y’mean the loo, like—”

Mike's already laughing along with Bill and Ben at the implication, about to explain the key differences between the _ fireplace _ and the _ toilet, _when the door to the cabin suddenly slides open, a small boy in the doorway.

“Hi—can I sit with you guys?”

* * *

Eddie Kaspbrak didn't think he'd ever go to Hogwarts.

That is, for the ten months he'd known it existed.

Like every other wizard or witch to-be, he received a simple letter on his eleventh birthday upon arriving home from school, sealed with wax, explaining to him that he'd been invited to attend _ Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _by the headmaster, Professor Tudor Maturin.

The first one, his mother, Sonia, convinced him was an elaborate prank. Complete and utter nonsense. He'd gone back to his ordinary primary school the next day without another thought—but with the letter hidden away in his desk drawer.

The second came several weeks later, asking for a reply—though Eddie couldn't entirely be sure if it was the second or the seventeenth with the way his mother immediately deposited them into the trash.

Eddie loved his mother. Truly, he did, but she'd always been more than a little overbearing and _ fiercely _ overprotective. His father, Frank, had passed away after a sudden illness when Eddie was a baby—so the memories of him and a more… relaxed mother were foggy at best. To top if off, they only had a handful of photos, too—though Eddie had no idea why— so it was hard for him to grasp onto _ any _sort of detail or information about his father; especially when his mother so easily avoided the topic whenever it came up. The only thing he had to go off of was when his mother would look at him, with an unreadable expression on her face, and say how much Eddie looked like him.

Many of her anxieties had imparted onto him as he got older—an unfortunate consequence of her growing abuse—but he was smart enough to know a simple letter wouldn't hurt them. Not to mention there was no good reason why anyone would choose to send _ anthrax _ in the mail to the two of them, of all people; despite his mother’s frantic muttering that suggested she believed otherwise. 

“What if we just reply?” He'd asked one cold Saturday in February over breakfast. “They're asking for a reply, so—maybe if we reply, they'll stop.” Or maybe, he hoped to himself, there was some insane truth to all of it. 

That was what got Sonia Kaspbrak to _ finally _ snap. “—Those people're the reason your dad is dead. We will _ not _ be giving them the time of day, _ do you understand me?” _

Eddie was at a loss for words at everything his mother's words implied. 

When he went to start asking questions, though, all he got was another swift “_Do you understand me?” _ in a tone he'd never heard from his mother before-- and truly never wanted to hear again.

“—Yes, mummy.”

And that was how it remained—the question was a non-starter, something he didn't dare even approach. The first letter remained safely tucked away in his room, only looked at long past when he was meant to be asleep—

Until one day in June, a man in deep green robes showed up to the door of their home in Northampton. Unmistakably, Eddie knew they were wizard robes. His mum didn't spot the figure outside before Eddie had answered the door, and by the time he had, there was nothing to be stopped.

“Edward,” He'd greeted him warmly by name. “I apologize for the sudden visit, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by to see why you hadn't written back any of my letters.”

Professor Maturin.

Before he can even reply, his mother appeared behind him, grabbing his arm and roughly pulling him back from the door, shielding him with her body. 

“Sonia. It's good to—”

“My Eddie will _ not _ be going to that school, you hear me? It's too dangerous—”

“Hogwarts is perfectly safe, I assure you. What happened with Frank was—”

“All you people's fault—”

“My dad was a wizard?” Eddie suddenly piped up, poking his head out from behind his mother’s back. Finally, he was faced with someone who would seemingly answer his multitude of questions.

“—Yes,” The older man replied kindly, giving his mother a brief glance before he crouched down to look Eddie in the eyes. “As are you. I'm sorry you didn't know sooner. But he died saving many, many lives—his job came with fighting dark wizards and protecting people. But Hogwarts,” At this point, he was speaking to them both, giving Sonia a pointed look. “Is an extremely safe place. And a place where you'll be able to learn to protect yourself, too. And I know your father would've wanted you to go.”

Eddie’s expression sours suddenly. While he is thrilled to know the truth about his father—well, to know _ anything _ about his father, really—he feels a sting of betrayal in his gut.

He had been lied to. 

He steps away from his mother and towards Professor Maturin, gritting through his teeth, “Mummy told me he died from sickness.”

His father had died a _ hero _ and his mother had called that _ illness. _

The older man’s expression doesn’t change, but there is _ something _ new in his tone when he addresses Sonia again, “I know you meant to protect him—”

“He’s my _ only _ son!” She cuts in, nearly hysterical, “He’s all I have left—”

“Don’t you believe, then, that it would be better for him to—” 

“_ No. _ You people are _ monsters_. My Eddie will _ not _ be involved with—”

“Yes I will.” Eddie says, abruptly. 

His mother’s gaze is on him in an instant, her voice is gentle, but is has that condescending edge to it, “Eddie, sweetie, let the adults talk, please—”

“_No_,” Eddie says, firmly, “_I’m _ going to talk and _ you’re _ going to listen.”

Surprisingly, his mother remains silent—in fact, she looks suddenly scared. Maybe she could tell just how furious he was with her.

“Bad people killed Dad, but that doesn’t make all of the witches and wizards bad. 

“That doesn’t matter! I know well enough why those _ people _ killed your father. Do you think that would have happened if he had just stayed away from them in the first place?” 

“No— I think that something even worse would have happened.” Eddie says, flatly. 

“You don’t mean that, Eddie Bear.” 

“I _ do _ mean it. If you don’t let me go, they'll just keep coming back. I _ know _ that. They didn’t give up sending me letters all this time even though you wanted to keep me away from them. You’re not going to stop them anymore. You’re not going to steal this life from me just because you’re scared of being alone.” 

She stares at him, flabbergasted, tears filling her eyes and starting to spill down her cheeks. Usually, when she cried, Eddie would end up crying, too. 

Not this time. 

“I love you, Mummy. But I want to love this world, the one Daddy loved, too. I think you’re just making yourself cry.”

“You’re hurting me, Eddie, can’t you see?” She whispers. 

“Don’t make me choose between you and them, Mummy.” He says, voice a little more uneven, “That’s not fair.” 

“They’re _ bad people— _“

“There are plenty of bad non-magic people, too, Mummy. Does that make all of them bad, too?” Eddie counters. His mother says nothing, sniffling softly. 

“You kept this from me. You lied, but sometimes that’s what grownups do, right? We don’t have to talk about it. I’ll keep an eye out on these people and I’ll keep using my asthma medicine. I’ll go to Hogwarts and study magic. That’s probably best, don’t you think?” 

She opens her mouth as if to protest, but closes it again. She had been trapped. 

“Mummy?” He whispers, gentler than before, “Give me a hug, okay?” 

She does, carefully—she was always worried about squeezing him too hard, breaking his bones—and Eddie hugs her back.

Professor Maturin had left shortly after that with an assurance that Eddie would be on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st. 

Eddie didn’t have a plan in mind for if his mother decided not to keep her word, but he thinks that Professor Maturin would show up again to help if it came to that; he’d said as much to his mother, anyway. 

To his astonishment, though, she makes good on her promise. 

It was a frantic morning going through Diagon Alley for his things (minus a pet, because _ who knows what you'll be allergic to—_), but they'd otherwise made it to platform Nine and Three-Quarters with no real issues; or discussion, really, but Eddie wasn’t going to complain about that much.

Especially not when he’s finally at the place he’d been dreaming about for months. 

They’re standing in silence, staring at the train, before his mother starts, “Eddie—”

“I'll be fine, mum,” He assures her, firmly, eyes darting to the clock, ticking closer and closer to the departure time—really, he should've gotten on ages ago. “I'm gonna be late—”

“—But do you have everything?”

“_Yes.” _

“Your inhaler?”

“Yes—”

“And the refills?”

“_Yes_, and you know where to send more—”

The train makes another whistle and Eddie doesn’t hesitate to use the opportunity to start pulling away. He gives her a quick kiss and, before she can say anything else-- or worse, change her mind—starts dragging his trunk, which was about as big as him, towards the luggage car. When that’s all set he practically sprints to get onto the train a few cars down, the first couple clogged to the brim with students.

_ Freedom. _

He pushes back echoes of his mother's voice in his head about germs and strangers and just tries to follow his gut. At this point, there's no way he's finding an empty cabin, but he can't be stingy about it— especially considering it was his own fault for taking so long to walk away from his mother and get on the train in the first place. 

“C’mon, Eddie, c'mon,” He mumbles to himself, walking through the train car when, all of a sudden, one of the compartments is filled with the sound of muffled laughter.

It feels like as good a sign as any.

He knocks on the door once, twice—god, it’s probably too loud for them to hear him. Which for Sonia’s Eddie, would’ve been a nightmare but...it's the start of a brand new life for him—so he just slides open the door, seeing the four boys inside.

“Hi—can I sit with you guys?”

A boy with wild, wavy black hair leans forward from beside the window and meets his eyes—and Eddie has to force himself to focus because his inner voice has started to divert to wondering when the last time this kid used a _ brush _ was—and replies, “You sure can, shorty.” 

He resigns to simply rolling his eyes before stepping in and sliding the door closed behind him, sitting between the other two boys—not on the same bench as the one who’d welcomed him in.

“What’s y-your name?” The one next to him with auburn hair and blue eyes asks.

“Eddie,” He replies, giving a small wave to the lot of them.

“I’m B-Bill.” He points around the cabin to the rest of the boys, as if he’s trying to make sure he gets the names right himself. “That’s Mike, B-Ben, and—”

“You should really start leaving the introductions to the professionals, Billiam,” The final, unnamed boy butts in, before turning his mischievous grin to Eddie, “Name’s Tozier. Richie Tozier.” 

Bill shakes his head, a smile on his face—like this is something he's done a million times already today before glancing over at the fogged glass of the door.

“—The _ Floo _ Network's fireplaces, not toilets, for the record,” Ben says out of nowhere, leaving Eddie visibly confused.

“A network of toilets sounds absolutely disgusting—” He grimaces. “Why would you even—”

“We were talking about how wizards talk to one another considering we don't really use electricity,” Mike explains, taking a second to look out the window, a grin crawling across his face as the train heaves into motion, pulling out of the station.

There were no words for how happy Eddie felt—and from the look of a few other faces around him, he could tell he wasn't the only one. 

“And we’re off,” He hums, perfectly content. The next few moments are spent watching out the window, keeping a close eye of the faces of all the parents, siblings, and other family members looking back, waving them goodbye. He notices Mike give a quick wave when he spots his parents, and Richie too, who is waving frantically at the crowd—

Eddie finally allows himself to sit back, noticing that Bill next to him wasn’t even looking towards the window, his gaze instead fixed in the opposite direction on the fogged glass.

“Do you not get on with your parents either?” He asks quietly.

Bill seems a bit surprised at the question—or maybe that Eddie had spoken to him at all, breaking him out of his focus. “—Y-yeah. They’re not even out th-th-there.”

“...I kinda wish my mum wasn’t out there. She didn’t want me to go.”

“Y-yeah, well—she’s out there, a-and you’re in here. G-going t’Hogwarts.” He says, voice warm. That’s the reminder Eddie needed to quell his previous unease. 

All the lies didn’t matter anymore because he’d be in a place where he could start to get some answers. Make friends—which, so far, he already seemed to be off to a good start on. And, in an odd sort of way, become closer with his father than he ever had been able to before.

Bill looks out the glass again, talking as he does so—while Eddie tries to see whatever he’s been looking at. “My p-parents didn’t really c-c-care about all this, hardly even b-blinked at the idea of m-magic existing,” He says, distracted a moment before looking back to Eddie. “Why didn’t your m-mum want you coming? I’m g-guessing she’s not a w-wizard either, then.”

Eddie snorts. “Definitely not. But, uh—apparently, my dad was. He died when I was really young, right, and—my mum always told me he’d just gotten sick, but apparently he was something wizards call an...Auror, I think it was? So he fought dark wizards, and—well, that’s how’e—” He takes a deep breath, finally pausing between words, meeting Bill’s sympathetic eyes. “Mum’s always been a little..._ overprotective, _and figures that’s why. She kinda...blames all of wizardkind for him dying, but—if I’m bein’ honest, I like knowing he died saving people. Being brave.”

“B-brave’s a good thing t’be,” Bill agrees, looking to the fogged glass once more as the rest of the cabin of boys starts to quiet down again as the train fully pulls out of the station; the familiar sight of London replaces the crowds outside of the window. 

“—What’re you looking at?” Eddie finally asks, attracting everyone’s attention. He’s lost count of how many times his new friend has looked over at the glass, but no matter how much he squints at it himself, he can’t place anything of interest. 

“I think th-the same two people’ve been walking back’n f-forth through the t-train since R-Richie and I got on. I keep s-seeing their shadows pass. I f-feel bad—” Bill explains, finally getting to his feet and sliding open the door, sticking his head out and calling down the hallway.

“Hey! Y-you can come s-s-sit with us!”

* * *

Stanley Uris has known Beverly Marsh his entire life.

In truth, Beverly was the _ only _ friend that Stanley had ever had. Which wasn’t to say that she wasn’t a _ good _friend—because she was and Stanley was grateful to have her—but he knows without her he’d have been a lonely child. 

The Uris family was an old, aristocratic pureblood wizarding family and, like the Marsh's, were considered to have some of the purest bloodlines left in the wizarding world; this list was one that his father, Donald, was quite proud to be on, though Stanley wasn't quite sure why it mattered even in the slightest.

(But, he supposes, this was just one of the many things that separated the two of them—and his mother, Andrea, made it a point to remind him that being different from his father wasn’t inherently a bad thing.)

Donald Uris wasn’t what Stanley would call a _ bad _ father, but he had the capacity to be quite strict, demanding, and, at times, distant. This was mostly attributed to the fact that Donald was a busy man, serving as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, quite a bit of his time was eaten up in his work. Stanley couldn’t fault him for that, really. 

Any time the two of them did get to spend together was mainly focused on Stanley’s studies. From a young age, Donald began to slowly introduce Stanley to numerous magical subjects—they’d bonded significantly over their shared love for potions and magical creatures and dedicated many days and nights to those subjects in particular. To his father’s delight, though, Stanley showed prowess, and interest, in nearly every new topic he was presented with.

As much as Stanley _ wanted _to obtain knowledge and hone his skills, he did find the pressure to be exhausting. Plus, the relentless pursuit of his studies left little time for much else, particularly time to just be a kid and connect more with his father. 

While attention from his father could often be lacking, he was receiving it tenfold from his mother. Andrea Uris was, in truth, Donald’s foil. (And Stanley thinks, perhaps, that is why they worked together, but he didn’t entirely understand _ love _ to that degree yet.)

Andrea didn’t work, so she spent much of her time at home with Stanley. While she did try and prioritize his studies, in preparation for his inevitable start at Hogwarts, she had plenty of time to spare for other activities as well; often opting for them to ditch the books and relax. 

She always told Stanley that it was okay to be committed to work, but it was never a bad thing to _ live a little_.

His favorite was when she taught him to fly. Flying had come as naturally as breathing to him and, in truth, there was no other feeling quite like being on a broom. Stanley thinks, maybe, if he were just any other kid, he’d hop on a broom every morning and never touch the ground again until dinner. He’d pass every second of every day high up in the sky, careless and free.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t his reality and Stanley had learned, over time, to cherish what he could get. 

His father kept him disciplined while his mother kept him relaxed. Without this contrast, Stanley’s sure he’d have ended up worse. 

This was what made Beverly Marsh such an interesting case. 

Both Beverly’s mother and father, Elfrida and Alvin Marsh, had high standards for their daughter; much like Stanley’s father. In theory, without the influence of a parent like Andrea Uris, Beverly should have shattered— and become unrelenting herself.

She hadn’t, though. She was a little rough around the edges—and far better at lying than the average child—but she was _ fun _. Not that very many people would know that side of her. Much like Stanley, her parents had fairly strict rules on who to spend time with and who was appropriate company for their daughter and their family. 

Fortunately, Stanley Uris had qualified to be Beverly’s friend. In other circumstances, their families might not have socialized—her father was more brash, and the Uris family was a generally reserved bunch—but both coming from old pureblood families, they kept together.

Beverly’s parents functioned in a similar manner to Stanley’s. Alvin Marsh, like Donald Uris, worked in the Ministry of Magic—though he was in the Department of Mysteries—and Elfrida Marsh, like Andrea Uris, stayed at home. The way Beverly was raised, though, was distinctly unlike the way Stanley was. Alvin was ruthless and Elfrida was complicit. When Stanley would make a mistake in his lessons, he'd be regarded disdainfully—with an insistence to get his head out of the clouds and back on his education. When Beverly made mistakes, or asked too many questions, or so much as looked the wrong way, the punishments were more…

Tangible.

Beverly wouldn't discuss details and Stanley knew better than to ask. Instead, they spent most of their time together making sarcastic comments and odd jokes about their parents' friends—much of both Stanley and Beverly's childhood had been spent at large, far too fancy (and often boring) gatherings of well-to-do witches and wizards. Every so often, though, they’d be able to sneak out of the back of the Uris Manor and hop on brooms, trying to get every ounce of fresh air they could. Beverly flew for fun, but, as his best friend, she could tell it was something that Stanley really needed.

She never saw him happier than he was on a broom. In truth, outside of flying, she rarely saw him smile _ at all _. An impression of one of their dads’ stuffy friends could usually pull a smirk out of him, but that was different.

They spoke often of Hogwarts—it had been a constant topic of conversation between the two of them, mostly that they couldn’t wait to go. Stanley was thrilled at the thought of all the knowledge he could obtain there and the ability to fly around as much as he'd like— maybe even play Quidditch. Stan was smart—the smartest person Beverly knew, adults included—and though she knew his father put a lot of pressure on him, she also knew he’d _ thrive _ in a place where he could do all that without his father looming overhead. 

Beverly just wanted to escape.

She receives her letter first.

She’d been home with her mother and grabbed the mail, quickly tucking the letter away in the pocket of her dress and running upstairs to send Stanley an owl. 

Stanley’s letter came that summer, with only a little over a month to go before they’d leave. Following the receipt of Stanley’s letter, the Uris and Marsh families had taken to running weekly errands in Diagon Alley to get the two of them everything they’d need for their first year. 

Stanley had been thrilled to start acquiring the required texts, already fully intent on reading everything before they would even leave for Hogwarts. Beverly had perked up a bit more when they went to pick pets. She had been instantly drawn to a sleek black cat that she’d yet to name. Stanley had, as she’d expected, gone with an owl that he’d fondly named Kookie— the name hardly made sense to her, or his parents, but Stanley was peculiar like that.

The day to arrive at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and depart on the Hogwarts Express had hardly come soon enough. 

Stanley had insisted that they arrive early and his parents had obliged without protest. He and Beverly didn’t have any real tearful goodbyes to exchange with their parents, far too excited to begin their first year. He did share a warm, tight hug with his mother, promising to write— and he knows Beverly is assuring the same to her own mother, even if the hug is a bit less fond. 

Stanley expected to exchange a brief, but pleasant hug with his father before taking off for the train, but found himself being guided aside instead—towards Beverly and her parents.

“We’d like to have a word with the two of you before you go.” His father explains, looking between the two of them. Stanley stands next to Beverly, swallowing nervously as he glances over towards her father—he’d always been just a _ bit _ frightened by Alvin Marsh. 

"You know how important this year is," Alvin begins, "And we think we've done a pretty good job at preparing you for it—"

"—But, you know, Hogwarts isn't _ all _ about classes." Stanley's father continues—and for a moment, he hopes for words of encouragement about having a little fun, maybe support in trying for Quidditch—but instead, his father says, "Make the right friends. You'll obviously have one another, but making connections with other successful wizards and witches to be is essential for your future."

Beverly gives a short nod, "—Of course."

He can tell she's rolling her eyes in her mind.

Stanley purses his lips, acknowledging his father with a short, “Right.”

His father pulls him into a short hug after that, bidding him farewell and reminding him to remain focused. With that settled, he and Beverly offer quick waves to their parents before _ finally _ taking off for the train. They’re not the first on, as Stanley had hoped, but for the most part it’s still scarce, with plenty of cabins to choose from. 

Stanley, however, is having a hard time keeping still. He starts to pace through the aisles, with Beverly right at his heels. 

“Stanny?” She asks, after a minute, “Why aren’t we sitting? There’s plenty of empty cabins—” 

“—That was all so vague, don’t you think?” Stanley deflects, scanning the compartments, but still not choosing to sit in one.

He hears Beverly exhale behind him, “You’re overthinking it. They were just doing what dads do, you know? Being overprotective and all—”

“—Is it possible to make _ wrong _ friends, though, Bev?” Stanley puzzles, walking back in the direction from which they came. “You’re the only friend I’ve ever had, how am I supposed to know if someone else is the _ right _ friend—” 

“We can figure it out together.” She coaxes, “You really don’t have to worry so much—”

Stanley wishes that were true. Beverly had always had a knack for remaining calm in situations like this, but it frustrates him to no end. It’s not that he thought highly of himself, but Stanley was _ good _ at understanding things. So, when his parents, or other adults, said things that he couldn’t comprehend, it _ offended _ him. 

He wants to brush it off— to be able to chalk it up to just another one of those _ dad things _ like Beverly is, but he’s desperate to put some sort of meaning to what their fathers had said. 

_ Make the right friends_. 

How was he supposed to know how to do that? Was this some sort of test? What was going to happen if he failed? What was going to happen if _ Beverly _failed? 

He’s not sure how long they have been wandering back and forth through the aisles, with Beverly remaining unusually silent, when a voice interrupts his thoughts. 

“Hey! Y-you can come s-s-sit with us!” 

Stanley startles, whipping around to find the source of the voice, eyes finding another boy— probably around their age, if he had to guess— with bright blue eyes and a two sizes too big … button up? (_When was the last time he’d had that pressed?_) He and Beverly share a look before he asks, carefully, “Are you sure?” 

“Why w-wouldn't I be?” The boy replies, sliding the door open a bit, revealing a few more faces inside the cabin. “W-we've got plenty'f r-room. If y-you want.”

Stanley feels Beverly's hand slide up his shoulder, as she peeks over it to look into the cabin with him. It's silent for a moment before she whispers, "I think it'll be okay, Stanny, don't you?" 

Any previous hesitation he may have had dissipates at that question. If Beverly didn't see a problem with it, then it couldn't hurt. (Plus, his mum would probably scold him if he turned down such a polite offer and he doesn't like even the _ thought _of upsetting her.) 

He nods once, before replying, "If you really don't mind, then, yes we'd like that." 

“D-definitely not,” He grins warmly, stepping back into the compartment to free the way for the two of them to step in. “I'm B-Bill, by the way—”

Suddenly, Bill is shoved out of the way and a boy with chaotic hair and thick framed glasses appears, beaming when he spotted the two of them, “Looks like we don't need to accept anymore applications. Welcome to The Losers Club, newbies!” 

Stanley frowns, “Losers?” 

He hears Beverly laugh, though, and take a few steps towards the cabin, “Sounds fun to me! I’m Beverly.” 

Stanley straightens up, following after her into the cabin. He meets Bill’s gaze as he enters, offering the other boy a shy smile, as he says, “‘My name is Stanley.” 

“—I’m Bill—w-wait—” He shuts his eyes, clearly embarrassed, but Stanley finds that he’s a little charmed by it. “I s-s-said that already. Well—I s-swear we didn’t v-vote on that name, Stanley,” Bill replies with a laugh and a sympathetic sort of smile that reaches his eyes. “A-and we all only m-met in the last half hour, so I’m officially n-not responsible for h-him.” 

The bespectacled boy throws an arm around Bill’s shoulders, still smiling as he coos, “Who else could be responsible for me, then, huh? You can’t dump me off on one of these guys _ already_—”

“Th-this is Richie,” Bill laughs. “We met on the p-platform, and… I g-guess that means I _ am _r-responsible for him.” 

Stanley’s genuinely amused as he watches the two of them interact— they’d only just met and yet they seemed like old friends already. Bill shoves Richie lightly, pushing him back towards where he'd been sitting. “Let them s-sit, Richie—” As they all finally enter the car, Bill motions towards the empty space between Richie and the blonde boy before sitting down across from them.

Beverly takes the seat next to the blonde, who turns towards her and squeaks, “I’m Ben, by the way.” 

As Stanley takes the seat between her and Richie, the small boy seated next to Bill gives a small wave, “I’m Eddie.” 

The last boy, sitting on Eddie’s other side, offers them both a warm smile as he adds, “And I’m Mike.” 

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Beverly says, “Thanks for letting Stanley and I sit with you.”

“It's nothing,” Mike insists. “Besides, if we don't like each other, it's _ only _ a nine hour train ride—” He adds with a laugh.

_ “Nine hours?” _ Eddie interrupts, voice notably more high pitched than before. “Just where the heck is this place anyway?” 

From the way the color is rapidly draining from the other boy’s face, Stanley thinks that he’s probably worried about more than just the length of the ride.

“No one knows, exactly—that's why it's so secure—” Ben explains. “But the best guess is somewhere in Scotland.” He also seems to have caught on to what Stanley had, though, and starts trying to reassure whatever Eddie's other concerns are— “There's food carts and stuff, and we'll get a warning when we should start changing into robes when we're nearly there. My gran says it passes by really quick.”

“What sort of food do they have?” Richie inquires. 

“Mostly just sweets,” Mike replies. “S'a Honeydukes thing. There's a whole feast when we get there so we don't have to worry about that.”

“Sweets like… C-Crunchies?”

“Um…no?”

“You people don't have _ Crunchies?_” Richie exclaims.

“—You're a part of ‘you people’ now, you know—” Ben starts, but Richie holds up a hand to stop him. 

“_Yeah_, but I've at least _ heard of _ Crunchies_.” _

Stanley watches this interaction with vague annoyance, glancing to Beverly who looks to be far more amused by the whole thing. 

Eddie, who had fallen silent after his initial outburst, suddenly speaks up again, asking curiously, “So, what does this… _ Honeydukes _ thing actually have?” 

This question does appear to finally intrigue Beverly enough to join the conversation as she gapes at Eddie in astonishment, “Wait, don’t tell me you’ve seriously never had a _ single _ sweet from Honeydukes before?”

“No?” Comes a chorus of voices from around the compartment—Eddie, Richie and Bill, Stanley notes.

“W-we didn't really grow up with a-all this—” Bill explains, awkwardly. “Y-you'll have to bear w-with us.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” Beverly assures them, quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that at all, I’m sorry.”

“Don't worry about't,” Richie replies with a wide-toothed grin. “We had t’explain dentists to the lot of them before, we're about even.”

“—No _ dentists?” _ Eddie gasps.”—How do you even—”

Mike leans over to him. “Magic. You'll be fine.”

“—So your families are all Muggles, then? That's pretty _ wow_—“ Beverly bursts out again, eyes curious. 

“I wouldn't call it _ wow_, but—My dad was a wizard, but I, uh—was only told that a few months ago, so—practically.” Eddie shrugs.

“Wild,” Beverly breathes. Two muggle-borns and a half-blood. After the massive speech about _ making the right friends, _ their fathers would be _ livid_. No wonder Beverly's thrilled, Stanley thinks. “I always thought that was interesting. When folks are Muggles for generations then suddenly, _ wizard. _ Like, what decides that?”

Mike nods in agreement. He appears to be in thought for a minute before adding, “I bet someone’s studied it. Or tried.”

“—So, what weird wizard jobs do your parents do, then?” Richie cuts in.

Beverly responds before Stanley can, shifting uncomfortably in a subtle way only he'd notice. “—My dad and Stanley's dad both work at the Ministry of Magic. Different departments, but, wizard government things. Like your average government, just...wizards,” She explains.

Before they can be pressed further, though, the door slides open, catching the whole compartment's attention—a kindly older woman with a cart filled to the brim with snacks familiar to Stanley's gaze.

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” She asks, peering in at them.

“A pair of pumpkin pasties?” Mike requests as he starts digging through his bag for coins. Stanley feels a brief tap on his knee, his attention snapping to Bill. 

“Sorry—Wh-what d’you think's best?” He asks, pulling a handful of sickles and knuts from the pocket of his flannel, peering at them, clearly a touch lost but genuinely eager. “—A-and how many do I n-need?” 

Stanley regards him curiously for a moment, glancing around the compartment at the rest of the group. Each of them is counting out their coins to see what treats they can get; clearly, most of them would only be able to get one or two, at most. 

He straightens his back, turning towards the older woman and declaring, boldly, “We’ll have a few of everything, please.”

Stanley can see Beverly's lips curling up into a grin out of the corner of his eye, but he adamantly ignores her. Bill's immediately stuttering out protests. "—Y-you don't have to do th-that—"

Richie cuts him off, hastily, though, "Bill, if the man wants to buy everyone a ton of candy, let him!" 

“That’s a _ lot _ of candy, though,” Eddie says, “are you sure, Stanley? It’ll be so much money—”

Stanley shrugs, “It hardly matters to me.”

He takes out his bag of coins, standing so he can approach the cart and hand the appropriate amount to the older woman. She offers him a knowing smile, “Thank you, dear. Go ahead and take your sweets.” 

Stanley turns towards the others, gesturing to the cart, “Could a few of you help me grab everything so she can continue to the other cabins?”

All of them are on their feet in an instant, bumping into each other as they all try to offer their help. Laughter fills the small compartment and it’s decided that those of them that are already closest to the door, and thus to the cart, will help Stanley to grab the sweets. They make quick work of it, thanking the older woman before she goes, the door sliding shut behind her.

Stanley’s eyes scan over each of them and all the various sweets scattered across their laps, a little stunned by their collective silence—were they waiting for permission? He clears his throat as he says, “Well? Go ahead, start trying them.” 

Richie’s first to rip open something, immediately followed by a shriek from Eddie as _ something _ moves from the wrapping. Richie erupts into hysterical laughter as the smaller boy continues to scream. “What is that?! _ What is that—” _

Ben’s the one who catches it before it can manage to escape, laughing along with Richie. “It’s a chocolate frog—”

“_Frogs aren’t candy—” _Eddie stammers.

“It’s not a _ real _ frog, it’s just enchanted to act like one!” Ben insists, still chuckling a bit as he holds out his closed palms, offering the chocolate back to Richie carefully. “There’s a card inside too with a famous witch or wizard on them. I’ve got a massive collection back home.”

“Who’d you get?” Stanley asks, with interest. 

Richie snorts, picking up the card and squinting at it through his thick glasses. "Just some old guy. Tudor… Maturin?"

"—_ Some old guy?" _ Mike interrupts, _ clearly _ offended. "Are you kidding me? He's the headmaster at Hogwarts—one of the greatest wizards to ever live—"

"—Okay, but he _ is _old—"

"—He came to my house when my mum wasn't letting me look at my letters." Eddie mentions, Bill nodding in agreement next to him, holding out a hand to take the card from Richie.

"M-me too. I mean, not that my p-p-parents weren’t going to l-l-let me come, but he came by on my b-birthday to explain everything."

“Wait. Headmaster Maturin _ actually _ showed up to your house? Like… _ in person _?” Ben asks, sounding stunned. 

"—Yeah, how come you got the headmaster? I just got some history teacher—"

"Professor Starrett is_ not just some history teacher—" _

"Probably because of my dad," Eddie cuts Mike off before he can give them the history of their, well, History of Magic professor. "I was, uh, telling Bill before—he was a wizard, and I didn't know. Mum just said he got sick, but the professor gave me the whole rundown on how he fought dark wizards and died saving a lot of people."

"Your dad was an Auror?" Beverly asks, giving Stanley a brief glance. 

"—Yeah, I think that's what he called it," Eddie agrees. "But I had no clue any of this existed. I guess mum was supposed to tell me, but," He finishes, a small grimace on his face. "That's probably why he came."

The others seem to nod in a consensus at that before their gazes fall on Bill. "D-don't look at me," He laughs, holding his hands up briefly. Stanley pretends not to notice the look Bill shares with Beverly. "I've got n-normal, not-wizard parents who d-don't care I'm here and a r-really excitable little brother. No story." 

"Maybe your brother will be a wizard, too. That happens in Muggle families who have wizards for kids. The whole generation gets it, sometimes," Mike notes, which puts a grin on Bill's face.

"I h-hope so. I think he was m-more excited than me, honestly. I promised I'd write e-everyday. Silver's gonna g-get a workout."

"Is Silver your owl?" Beverly asks, amused. Bill’s face is proud as he nods. 

“I chose an owl, too.” Stanley says, softly. He had been content, until now, to just listen to the group talk, staying mostly uninvolved in their discussions, but if Beverly was trying, he figures he probably should, too. 

“I’ve got a cat,” Beverly says, “though, I still haven’t decided on a name.” 

“_What,” _Richie blurts, “how do you not name your pet?” 

Beverly frowns, “Because I wanted it to be meaningful—”

Richie snorts, “_ Oy. _ It’s just a name. Why not call her Meowly Ringwald, then?” 

Stanley is puzzled by this joke— at least he _ assumes _ it’s a joke, given that Bill cracks a smile after and Eddie tries— and fails— to smother his laughter. At the very least, Beverly, Ben, and Mike also seem to be vaguely confused by this particular jab from Richie. 

After a moment, though, Beverly laughs as well, “Alright, then. I guess she’s got a name after all.” 

Richie seems particularly pleased with himself for that. 

The conversation continues to flow naturally between them as Stanley learns that the rest of them had not chosen pets— at least, for now. It hardly stops at that, though. They shift seamlessly from one topic to the next, as if they’d all been longtime friends and not just a group of stragglers that had come together by chance. 

Stanley is, admittedly, perplexed by this. Having had only one friend to interact with his entire life did mean that his social skills were sufficiently lacking, but, with everything his father had ingrained in him, the feeling of comfort that comes from a group of complete strangers strikes him as particularly odd.

Since joining them in the offered space of the small compartment, he’d spent the entire time mulling over his father's parting advice. Stanley had thought he was starting to get a pretty good grip on what it all meant, too. Most people were self-interested. The pursuit of knowledge was to become smarter than one's enemy, the study and practice of magic was to become superior in combat and skill, the meeting of any other students was to form beneficial connections— it was about preservation. Not even just for himself, but for his family. The Uris family future was now riding on Stanley's shoulders and every choice he made from these moments forward.

When his father had said meet the right people, he probably meant people similar to them. People like the Marsh's, like all the fancy, pureblood family friends he'd been introduced to over the years; people, that Donald believed, would pave the best future for Stanley.

Stanley could hardly say, for certain, if this group was exactly what his father had had in mind, but he can't find it himself to care that much. For him, this group feels right—more right than anything has in a long time. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to him yet, but if it feels right, then does he really need his father’s seal of approval?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We didn't want to take too long for you all to meet the Losers! This chapter's a long one because we really wanted this train ride to set them all up as characters and give you a bit of a hint as to what's to come for each of them and their relationships! Next chapter's sorting! ;)
> 
> Feel free to throw us a kudos or a comment if you like what you've read/want to yell about feelings, hit us up on tumblr at rpluse and iswearbill, and subscribe if you want to see more!


	3. Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers get sorted into their houses and not everything goes according to Richie Tozier's plan.

Nine hours go by surprisingly fast for the seven new friends—conversation hardly falters between them, keeping their minds occupied over the course of the long journey. By the time they get the announcement that they are approaching Hogwarts and to change into their robes, it truly feels like no time has passed at all. 

They clamor out of the train when it comes to a halt, joining the flood of students walking onto the platform.

Mike is the first one to catch the voice—"First years, this way! The rest of you off to the carriages, first years with me!"

The friends push through the crowd of older students towards the calling teacher. Mike and Ben lead the way eagerly, Richie grabs the sleeves of both Bill and Eddie's robes so they don't get left behind, Stanley weaves through other students in an attempt to not crash into anyone, and Beverly follows up behind him, keeping them all together.

When they're finally out of the way of the older students, through a narrow path and around the corner, that's when they catch the first glimpse of it—Hogwarts. Even Richie stops, his grip on Eddie and Bill slackening as the three of them stare in brief awe.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Beverly breathes behind them. 

Just a few steps ahead, Ben nods in agreement. "Wow."

It was unlike anything any of them had ever seen—Mike and Stanley would discuss later that the photos they'd seen in _ Hogwarts: A History _ hardly did it justice.

And they were right. Maybe because it was their first time, or just the perfect view at twilight of the castle all lit up on the other side of the Great Lake, or maybe just because they'd all been so eager to get there, but—that night, Hogwarts _ had _ been particularly beautiful.

"C'mon you lot, quit staring or you'll never get inside!" The voice of the teacher descriptive snaps them out of their trance. "No more than four to a boat!"

Mike's first to pile into one of the boats, with Richie and Bill filing in not long after. Beverly and Stanley carefully step into the boat next to them—far less rowdy than Richie, who's making his boat shake far too much for Mike's liking. Seeing this, Ben quickly decides to follow Stanley and Beverly into their boat, giving an apologetic grimace to Mike.

Eddie's still left on the dock, then, staring down at the group of them. Staring at the wide expanse of black water. It's about now that he'd kill to pull his inhaler out of the deep pockets of his robe, but—

_ Breathe_, he tells himself. _ Breathe_.

"Eds, c'mon!" Richie calls, his grin wide. The nickname immediately has the smaller boy rolling his eyes. "Plenty of room!"

"First off, that's not my name, and second off, I'm _ not _ getting in a boat with you unless you stop shaking it around like an _ asshole_," He retorts, face serious.

"Just havin' a little fun—" Richie begins—but Bill elbows him quickly, eliciting a sharp _ ouch _from the bespectacled boy. "Fine, fine, I won't rock the boat." He holds his hands up, as if to show his innocence, giving a doe eyed look to Eddie.

Bill trades a brief, honest glance with the boy on the dock that finally gets him to succumb, climbing into the boat, muttering to himself the whole way in.

"I _ swear to god _if after all this I die from drowning on a freaking boat in a lake, I'm gonna kill you guys—"

"It's totally safe," Stanley calls over. "Just don't get the mermaids upset. They bite."

"The _ what— _"

Needless to say, not a single boat filled with First Years sunk to the bottom of the Great Lake that night. They glided across the water, and after a short trip across the surface, they landed in what seemed to be a dark tunnel in the underside of the school.

"Keep your heads down as you get off the boats," The teacher calls. "Ceiling's a bit low until we get to the stairs—"

They walked through the chilly corridors in near silence—none entirely sure what came after this. The pressure that sunk on the crowd of First Years only lifted when the professor pushed open a pair of large, iron doors that finally gave them a decent amount of light.

The room they opened up to was a large entrance hall, lit with dozens of flaming torches. A tall wizard in deep blue robes stands in the middle of it—and a warm smile crosses his face as he sees the group of sudden students enter.

"First Years are all yours, Professor Hollerann."

Professor Hollerann nods his head, politely, before focusing back on the students, opening his arms, “Welcome to Hogwarts. I’m sure you’re all quite excited— and quite _ hungry_. The start-of-term banquet will get under way shortly, however, before we all take our seats in the Great Hall to eat and relax, you will all need to be sorted into your houses.

“The Sorting Ceremony is very important. It marks the start of your journey here as young witches and wizards. The members of your house will become something like family for each of you— between shared classes, dormitories, and common rooms, those will be the people you spend quite a deal of time with.”

There is hushed chatter among the crowd of new students, but it’s quickly silenced as Professor Hollerann continues, “There are four houses— Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. And while these houses may differ in their traits and history, they have _ all _ produced greatness. It would do you well to remember that.” 

He’s silent for a moment, eyes scanning the crowd, gaze lingering for a moment on several different faces in the crowd, Beverly and Stanley included.

“Regardless of which house ends up becoming yours, you should all hope to be a strong attribute to that house. Your actions will reflect on you and your house— triumphs can earn your house points, while rule breaking will lose them. This should be seen as a way to motivate you to succeed, as the house with the most points at the end of the year is awarded the house cup.

“Now then, the ceremony will begin in just a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I’ll be back to gather you when we are ready for you.” 

With that, he sweeps out of the hall, leaving them to wait.

Richie is the first to speak, turning towards the rest of the group to ask, “How exactly do they decide which house we belong in, anyway?” 

"My dad said it’s like a test," Beverly frowns. "But I always thought he was just being ominous—"

"A _ test _?" Eddie squeaks, looking between Beverly and Richie. "No one told me I was supposed to prepare for a test—can I flunk? Will they kick me out? Can I get no house?"

"—They won't _ kick you out_—" Stanley chimes in. "I don't think—"

"I wish w-we could all just be in the s-s-same house," Bill admits, only just loud enough to be heard. He'd grown attached to his six new friends—more than he'd like to admit, after a lifetime of really just having his brother around.

There's a brief silence among the group, but a few traded glances and nods show that Bill's feeling is generally mutual.

"—I expect I'll end up in Slytherin," Stanley admits, though he doesn't look entirely happy at the fact. "My whole family has been for as long as anyone can remember."

“Me too.” Beverly echoes, sharing a knowing look with Stanley, pointedly avoiding the curious gazes of the rest of the group. 

“That’s not a bad thing is it?” Richie queries.

“Depends who you ask.” Stanley replies, softly. 

Ben catches something in Stan's tone, interjecting quickly. "—There's no such thing as a bad house," He adds reassuringly. "Bad people, maybe, but I was just locked in a tiny train car with you guys for almost ten hours, and—you're all pretty good to me."

A small smile works its way onto Stanley’s lips, but he says nothing further on the matter. 

“Alright, get into line, all of you!” Professor Hallorann’s voice echoes through the hall, all of the students scrambling as best they can into two single file lines.

“Remember,” Richie whispers to the rest of them. “We’re all legally obligated to be Slytherins now, since that’s what Stan and Bev are gonna be. You better let me copy your answers,” He adds, giving a pointed, comically serious look to Stanley.

Stanley rolls his eyes, but there’s an amused smile on his face, as he shoves Richie into the line. 

The massive doors to the Great Hall swing open, and the lines start to file in. The room is unlike anything any of them have ever seen—four long tables the First Years walk between, older students seated at each. Candles float near the ceiling—except there really is no ceiling. The whole room is open to the night sky.

“It’s just an enchantment. It always looks like the sky outside,” Ben whispers, seeing the awed look on Eddie’s face in front of him.

Teachers are seated at a fifth banquet table up front—Bill recognizes Professor Maturin in the center of them, along with a handful of other witches and wizards, trying to place any of their faces to names Mike had mentioned on the train.

In front of that table, is nothing but an ordinary, wooden stool—and on top of the stool, a ragged brown wizard’s hat. It’s slumped over sadly, looking too forgotten for something clearly intentionally placed at the front of the huge room.

The lines stop, and it feels as if they stand there forever, just...staring. Richie starts to get fidgety, Eddie gets on his toes to try and get a better look at the front—

And then, out of nowhere, a massive tear rips itself in the front of the hat, like a mouth—

The hat begins to _ sing. _

_ "Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, _

_ But don't judge on what you see, _

_ I'll eat myself if you can find _

_ A smarter hat than me. _

_ You can keep your bowlers black, _

_ Your top hats sleek and tall, _

_ For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat _

_ And I can cap them all. _

_ There's nothing hidden in your head _

_ The Sorting Hat can't see, _

_ So try me on and I will tell you _

_ Where you ought to be. _

_ You might belong in Gryffindor, _

_ Where dwell the brave at heart, _

_ Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart; _

_ You might belong in Hufflepuff, _

_ Where they are just and loyal, _

_ Those patient Hufflepuffis are true And unafraid of toil; _

_ Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, _

_ if you've a ready mind, _

_ Where those of wit and learning, _

_ Will always find their kind; _

_ Or perhaps in Slytherin _

_ You'll make your real friends, _

_ Those cunning folk use any means _

_ To achieve their ends. _

_ So put me on! Don't be afraid! _

_ And don't get in a flap! _

_ You're in safe hands (though I have none) _

_ For I'm a Thinking Cap!" _

Bill finds himself gaping at Richie through most of the song—on the list of things he anticipated at _ Wizard School _, somehow, a singing hat hadn’t come up.

“Did I just bloody imagine that?”

Bill shakes his head at the other boy, eyes still wide. Mike, across from them, is grinning.

“—So all we’ve got to do is wear the smelly old hat. No test, Eds—” Richie nudges him.

“That thing looks _ disgusting,_” Eddie shudders, his distaste for the concept so strong that he doesn’t immediately object to Richie’s nickname. “Can you even imagine how many kids have worn that? How _ old _ is Hogwarts?”

“Founded in the year 990, so like, a thousand years old,” Mike shrugs. “And the Sorting Hat’s been around for it all.”

“We’re all gonna get lice. Does one of those houses represent lice? Because that’s all we’re getting out of this—”

Eddie’s anxious rambling is cut off by Professor Hallorann, who now has a scroll in his hands at the front of the room. “Once I’ve called your name, please step forward, sit on the stool and place the hat on your head. 

“Audra Phillips!” 

A small girl, with long, fiery hair steps away from the line and towards the stool. It’s strange, she has a shocking resemblance to Beverly. 

She places the hat carefully on her head as she sits. Maybe five seconds pass before the hat shouts, “GRYFFINDOR!” 

The table to the far left claps and cheers as Audra makes her way over to sit. 

“Betty Ripsom!” 

“GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouts, again, and Betty scurries over to take a seat next to Audra.

“Stanley Uris!” 

Stanley exhales slowly. Richie gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before he goes, walking confidently up to the stool. 

The last thing he sees before the hat falls over his eyes are the smiling faces of the Losers staring up at him. Next second he’s looking at the inside of a dirty hat in silence. He waits. 

“Oh, a Uris, hm?” A small voice whispers in his ear. “Interesting. Most of your family has been Slytherin.” 

Stanley curls his fingers into fists on his lap. Of course he’d end up there, too.

“Not so fast,” the small voice says, “you’re a bit more difficult than the rest of your family. Very difficult, indeed.” 

Stanley’s stumped by this. The hat falls silent again for a while and he starts to drum his fists against his thighs, anxiously. 

“You _ could _ be great in Slytherin, though,” the voice says, after a minute, “no doubt about that. But I see something else in you. Stronger than a desire for greatness. A strong, intellectual mind. Plenty of talent. A need to learn more— to be different than your father, now _ that’s _interesting… hm.” 

Another long silence follows and Richie taps his foot, impatiently, tilting his head towards Mike. “What’s taking so long?”

“—Not everyone’s so quick,” Mike murmurs back, looking up at Stanley. “Sometimes the hat has a hard time choosing.”

Whatever choice the hat was going to make, Stanley hopes it doesn’t take much longer. He’s already been sitting on the stool for several minutes and he can hear the start of hushed murmurs at the tables— it’s becoming decidedly uncomfortable. He doesn’t like the attention, much. 

“_ Interesting_,” The voice repeats, again, finally breaking the silence, “you haven’t got to worry much, you’re already quite different from your father, eh? With that in mind— better be RAVENCLAW!”

Stanley’s stunned still for a moment after hearing the last word. This was unheard of for a member of the Uris family, but—

He’s _ relieved_. 

He removes the hat from his head, still trembling a bit, but overall _ thrilled _ as he makes his way to the table second from the left. 

“I’ve never seen him smile like that before.” Beverly comments, softly. 

“Someone doesn’t know how to stick to a plan.” Richie mumbles, grinning as Beverly elbows him. 

“Patricia Blum” goes to Ravenclaw, too, but “Greta Keene” becomes the first new Slytherin and the table on the far right explodes with cheers as she joins them. 

“Edward Kaspbrak!” 

Eddie scrambles up to the stool, trying not to gag as he places the hat on his head. 

“You’ve quite a strong mind, haven’t you?” A voice says, “Worked hard to get here, yes… Fierce loyalty to your new friends, that’s admirable. You’re a lot like your father Frank, you know, he was a fine Gryffindor indeed.” 

He hadn’t even considered the idea that this hat had, at some point, been on his father’s head, too. Was he meant to be a Gryffindor, then, too?

“—You’d certainly do well there, you do have the guts, don’t you? But I think you belong somewhere else. How about—HUFFLEPUFF!” 

The table second from the right starts to cheer as Eddie quickly removes the hat and sets it back on the stool before heading over to them. 

“Michael Hanlon!”

Mike’s excitement is palpable as he practically runs up to the stool, placing the hat onto his head. 

The Great Hall was large, but the energy during the Sorting Ceremony always tended to be infectious—and up until now, nerves had been washing off of the First Years in waves. But not Mike. There isn't a hint of anxiety in him, just pure anticipation and _ joy. _

He’s waited his entire life for this, not even bothering to hide the smile on his face.

Only a few seconds pass before the hat, without so much as a question, declares him—"RAVENCLAW!"

He’s on his feet in an instant, leaving the hat behind and dashing for the Ravenclaw table, where Stanley is sitting and cheering for him with the rest of their new house. 

A few others are quickly sorted— Kay McCall to Slytherin, Edward Corcoran to Gryffindor, and Bradley Donovan to Hufflepuff— before the next Loser is called. 

“Richard Tozier!” 

Richie grins, turning to Ben, Bill, and Beverly, giving a sweeping, dramatic bow that has Beverly giggling. "See you on the other side, my friends—"

"—G-g-get up there, _ R-Richard—" _ Bill snorts, shoving him lightly towards the front of the hall. Richie obliges with a grin, blowing a few kisses and giving waves to random students as he goes before finally sitting himself on the stool.

The hat is only on his head for a moment when he hears a whisper in his ear, “Well you’re quite surprising, aren’t you?” 

_ That’s a good thing, though, right, Mr. Hat? _

"I'll leave that for you to decide—SLYTHERIN!"

Richie hops down from the stool to head to the table, thinking to himself that at least _ he _ had managed to get sorted into the agreed upon house. 

“Benjamin Hanscom!” 

Ben hesitates for a moment, glancing towards Bill and Beverly. 

“Go on.” Beverly encourages, softly, with a warm smile. He feels heat rising on his cheeks and nods, quickly turning away to approach the stool. 

The hat sits on his head for just a few moments before calling out, “HUFFLEPUFF!” 

Ben heads to the Hufflepuff table, smiling as he takes a seat next to Eddie. 

Several more students are sorted as Beverly and Bill wait— a Tom Rogan goes to Gryffindor, Brenda Arrowsmith to Hufflepuff, Sally Mueller to Ravenclaw, and then—

“Beverly Marsh!” 

Beverly reaches over to take Bill’s hand, squeezing it gently, “Wish me luck.” 

Bill beams, “I’m sure you don’t n-n-need it.” 

With that, she heads up to the stool to sit. The hat has barely touched her head when it yells, “SLYTHERIN!” 

Beverly goes to join Richie who is whooping rather loudly for her from his place at the Slytherin table. She elbows him gently as she sits, grinning alongside him at the display.

_ It’s just putting on a hat, _ Bill thinks, thumb rubbing over the ridge on his palm. _ You can’t mess it up. There’s nothing to worry about. _

In Bill’s head, though, there was everything to worry about—he was the last of his friends to be called, and even though there were a good few more students waiting with him, as more and more of them get called, he becomes increasingly anxious about the possibility that this was all just some mistake. That he’d have to take Silver back to Bristol and see Georgie’s disappointed face when he says that he wasn’t a wizard after all. 

The crowd around him gets smaller as there’s a new Gryffindor, two new Ravenclaws—he’s so mixed up in his thoughts that the shout of his name catches him by surprise.

“William Denbrough!”

The relief that floods into his system is short lived, though, as, suddenly, he feels like every set of eyes in the hall is on him_ . _

_ It’s just in your head. You’re stressed. It’s a room of people watching everyone get sorted, of course they’re staring at you. _

He steps forward, trying and failing to catch any portion of the whispers and murmurs that broke out among the students. Had they whispered about everyone? No, he doesn’t think they had—or maybe he just hadn’t noticed because it wasn’t him before—

He tries to shake it off, though— even as he sits at the front of the room, _ very _ aware of how many eyes are fixed on him before the hat falls over his sight line.

“It’s about time you got here,” A voice echoes in his ears, causing him to nearly jump in his seat.

_ I was just thinking the same thing. _The hardest part is over, now, though—the waiting. Now, he just wants to go sit with his friends. 

The voice—the hat, he presumes—laughs, then, before continuing. “I’m very sorry to disappoint you, William, but there’s certainly no other place for you—GRYFFINDOR!”

For a second, disappointment washes over Bill—the only house where there isn’t a single familiar face waiting for him. _ Your house is something like your family, _ he can hear Professor Hallorann’s voice echo in his mind. And yet, somehow, Bill couldn’t help feeling like he’d already been split from his. 

It’s hard for him to stay completely disappointed, though, as the hat is lifted from his head, and the Gryffindor table instantly _ erupts _ into cheers. It does more than enough to lift his spirits a bit— and the quick change in mood has him hardly noticing he’s gotten the loudest applause yet.

With a tiny, genuine grin on his face, he steps down from the front and to the table of students clad in scarlet and gold, instantly overwhelmed by the number of people going to congratulate him or shake his hand, but grateful for the friendly faces.

The last few students are called to the front—another two Hufflepuffs, a Slytherin, and one last Gryffindor—though the crowd’s lost a bit of its rambunctiousness, Bill claps his support for all of them. At the same time, he looks around the room, trying to catch the eyes of any of his friends from the train. 

As soon as he catches Richie’s gaze, though, the room’s gone silent again—with Professor Maturin standing up at the head table to speak, looking out at the crowd of students.

“Welcome, all of you, to another year at Hogwarts. Just a few start-of-term announcements before we get the feast underway—to all of you First Years, the grounds beyond the Forbidden Forest are, as implied, _ strictly _forbidden to all students.”

“Quidditch trials will be held in two weeks time. If you’re interested in trying out for your House Team, make sure you’ve spoken to your team’s captain by the end of the first week of classes. The season starts first week of November.”

“Lastly, this year, I’ll kindly ask that all students avoid the second floor, south corridor—and by kindly ask, I mean to say that the area is absolutely off-limits to students, and any student finding him or herself there is seeking a fate worse than death itself.”

There’s an uncomfortably long pause, then—

“With that being said—let the feast begin!”

The Professor gives a small wave of his arms, then, and the tables begin to magically line themselves with all sorts of foods. Bill’s trying to focus on where to even start, but before he can put a single thing onto his plate, there’s a tap on his shoulder. He jumps, turning to see that it’s Professor Maturin—_ when did he get down here _—

“William,” He begins kindly. “Do you mind if we speak in my office for a few minutes?”

_ And _ there’s _ the other shoe dropping, _ Bill thinks, swallowing roughly but giving the headmaster a nod. Somehow, he’d managed to screw it all up. “Of c-course,” He cracks out, putting down his plate and stepping away from the table and a crowd of curious gazes.

Bill manages to briefly catch the shocked eyes of the Losers across the other three tables, one by one, who notice him following the Professor out of the Great Hall, his heart sinking into his stomach. 

He can’t help but think it might be the last time he sees the six of them ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is how this ambitious fic began—with the two of us trying to sort the Losers into houses!
> 
> Again, kudos and comments mean the world! Let us know what you're thinking below, and come yell with us about this AU on tumblr!


	4. Hearsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie discover there's more to one of their new friends than meets the eye.

Richie doesn’t understand why Beverly isn’t more _ thrilled _ at the food that’s appeared in front of them. Sure, she’s from a wizard family, blah blah, but this was _ insane. _Puddings he couldn’t name, more meat than one human could ever consume (though he's certainly prepared to try), mountains of vegetables, and boats of gravy, but the redhead hardly seems fazed by it all. In fact, she appears more frustrated than anything.

Before he can even ask—clearly, why she’s got her wand stuck up her butt—she’s on her feet, tugging him out of his seat, and pulling him along with her. They only attract a handful of odd looks from otherwise distracted and chatty students at the Slytherin table as they head towards the exit to the Great Hall— and away from the food, to Richie’s dismay.

“—Hey, hey, where are we going?!” Richie exclaims, though he isn’t actually resisting as she drags them away from the commotion of the other students, happily eating their meal and getting acquainted with the members of their house. 

“We’re just getting some fresh air,” She explains, both to him and to a few older students standing near the doors with a warm smile. They pass through with Richie at her heels.

He knows the smile is fake—sees the echoes of her confounded expression from the table—but the other students don't appear to notice a thing. It's then that Richie realizes that Beverly Marsh is a Grade-A bullshitter.

He loves her _ already_.

It's cooler when they step out into the Entrance Hall, Beverly still _ completely _ignoring him and making her way towards the courtyard outside. He has to jog to catch up to her, speaking again once they’re out of earshot. “Hey, what’s your—”

“I’m so _ stupid—_” She declares as soon as they’re outside. She starts pacing in circles on the stone walkway, still not meeting his eyes. “I should have known, should have put it together—”

Before he can crack a joke, another voice interrupts the quiet air, catching Richie’s attention. “You’re _ not _ stupid, Beverly,” Stanley says coolly, hands in the pockets of his robes as he approaches them from the castle, Mike at his side. “How were you supposed to put it together? How were any of us supposed to?” His expression is far more composed than Bev’s, but there’s clearly a hint of something else there—aggravation, maybe? Richie considered himself pretty good at reading others, but Stanley was a rather difficult one to assess.

“I saw the _ scar... _ on his _ hand, _ on the _ train_! But I thought I was just seeing things—”

“So what would you’ve done, hm?” Stanley retorts, leaning against one of the archways. “Asked him about _It_?”  
  
“Stanley’s right,” Mike says, with a frown. “He didn’t know anything about magic or wizardry on the train—I don’t think he has a clue about any of it.”

“Speaking of not having a _ clue _—” Richie finally tries to get a word in edgewise, but before he can continue, he hears Ben calling across the courtyard.

“—Did any of you guys know he was _ William Denbrough_?!”

Eddie’s right on Ben’s tail as he runs over to join them. And when the smaller boy’s eyes meet Richie’s, he’s instantly grateful to not be the only one who is _ completely _ lost.

Finally, like he’s in his normal primary school classes again, Richie raises his hand, “Hi, yeah, question?” 

He waits until everyone’s eyes are on him before continuing, “I thought we’d _ already _ established who we all were when we introduced ourselves on the train? Why are we now panicking about Bill?”

Stanley sighs, “We’re not _ panicking_, we’re just—”

“—connecting the dots.” Beverly concludes.

“What does that even _ mean_?” Richie asks, suddenly defensive, “It’s just _ Bill_. You two are making no sense—”

“Richie,” Mike starts, “relax, it’s just shocking—”

“Why’s that, exactly? You all have some sort of problem with him now?” 

“—We don’t have a problem with him at all!” Beverly exclaims. Richie’s eyes narrow. 

“It sure seems like you do. Is it because he’s a Gryffindor? That’s so _ stupid_— _ ” _

“If you would just shut up for _ one minute_, we could explain—” Stanley mutters, sounding exasperated. 

“_ Guys _ ,” Ben cuts in, voice louder and more firm than Richie has heard from him, “we all need to just _ calm down _. Let us speak, Richie. It’s not bad, alright?” 

Eddie steps up to Richie’s side and places a hand on his arm, “I’m just as confused as you are, but—we have to hear them out, okay?” 

Richie shifts on his feet for a moment, glancing between Eddie and the rest of the group, before exhaling heavily, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back onto the stone structure behind him, “_ Fine_. Start talking.” 

There's a moment of silence, as Beverly, Stanley, Mike and Ben all look back and forth at each other—probably silently trying to decide who would take the lead on this— before Mike sighs and takes it upon himself to start the discussion.

"—We can't really explain why William—_Bill_, I mean—is important until we explain _ It _ to you."

"Yeah, _ obviously _, so could you start talking, please?” 

“That’s what we are _ trying _ to do, Richie. We need to explain _ It_, though.” Ben says, nervously, shuffling his feet.

“_ Yes_, got it, _ thank you_. Am I not being clear enough—”

“_ It _ is a _ person_, Richie. If you would just _ shut your mouth_—” Stanley grits out. 

Beverly places a hand on his arm, soothingly, raising her voice to speak above all of them, "—It would be easier if you just call him Pennywise, you know." 

Richie can’t help but take particular notice to the way Stanley and Ben flinch in direct response to that name, an uneasy silence plunging over the group. 

"Pennywise?" Eddie asks, clearly catching the shift in the mood. 

"—He's a dark wizard that most people_ prefer _ to call It_," _ Mike explains softly, trading a brief glance with Beverly. "His name freaks them out. He's been dead a long time, but… People are still afraid."

"They've got every right to be," Ben murmurs. "Ten years isn't _ that _ long ago.” His gaze almost seems far away as he shivers—and Richie’s fairly sure at this point it’s not from the cold September air.

"What'd he do that's so bad people don't wanna even say his name a decade after he's kicked the bucket?" He's joking around, but— if he's honest with himself— just by looking at his new friends' faces, Richie's not entirely sure he wants to know. He’s always game for a good laugh, but—no one else seems like they’re in the mood.

"We're here t'learn magic, but my dad says there's magic, old, _powerful_, magic, you're just… Not supposed to mess with. Magic that _feeds _off fear.” Mike replies. 

“...I’m guessing Pennywise liked that magic, then?” Richie asks hesitantly.

Ben nods gravely, “He didn’t just like it. He… _ thrived _ off it, in a way. He was so far gone into this magic, studying it and bringing it back, he—he also managed to _ create spells _ based on what he discovered.”

“That and he’s killed like… _ thousands _ of people.” Stanley adds, shifting uncomfortably. 

“I was getting to that.” Mike mumbles. Richie looks to Eddie, whose face paled considerably, as Mike went on. "He wanted to rule wizard kind, and—anyone who didn't fall in line wasn't a part of the Wizarding World he wanted to create. Muggleborn, pureblood, it hardly mattered. He and his followers would kill them all the same. They'd kill people, people would become more scared, and the fear would make'm more powerful… It was an awful cycle. Mum says we’re lucky to be growin' up after all of it. That I learn about it in books instead of the hard way."

"Where was the government or something when all this was happening?" Richie manages. 

“Pennywise had so many followers that— that nobody knew who to trust. Nowhere was safe. They all tried—regular people, members of the Magical Law Enforcement, Aurors—but most of them went the same way as anyone else who tried to go up against him. It was a _ war, _Richie, and… we were losing."

There's another silence that hangs in the air a little too long. It's Eddie who breaks it this time—his expression riddled with anxiety. Richie thinks he actually looks pretty close to throwing up anything he might’ve managed to eat in the Great Hall. "Professor Maturin, he said—he said my dad was—was one of the people who—who go after dark wizards. And that he died. He died saving people. Do—do you think he—"

"—Maybe. I couldn’t say for sure, but it's— it’s very possible, Eddie." Beverly says softly, not meeting Eddie's eyes.

It’s different for he and Eddie, Richie thinks—they’ve both come from a world, like Bill, where they didn’t know anything about wizards, or what they were getting into, but—Eddie still has that tie, with his dad. The idea that he could’ve been a part of this world, and more _ connected _ to his dad the entire time.

Richie slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, voice uncharacteristically soft, “Hey, it just means your father died bravely. He was fighting for everyone—for _ you._”

He can see Eddie getting a little filled up thinking about it, but the other boy nods—and Richie's pleased he could help in a small sort of way. He shifts his gaze back to Mike as he asks, “So, if Pennywise was _ that _ powerful and… influential, how exactly did they beat him? You said the good guys were losing—”

“That’s where Bill comes in, actually.” Stanley replies. 

“—You’re _ kidding_.” Eddie interjects, looking up to meet Richie’s eyes, looking for some sort of solidarity.

“Ten years ago we were all _ babies_.” Richie maintains.

“Yes,” Stanley goes on, “and, for some reason, _ It _ went after a random baby in the middle of the Muggle area of Bristol. The baby lived. It died." 

"You’re not _ seriously _ trying to tell me that _ Bill _ is that baby?” Richie challenges. 

"There's a lot the world doesn't know about that night—why Pennywise went after him, why the baby lived, what _ exactly _ happened—but what everyone in the Wizarding World _ does _ know is the baby's name." Mike replies.

"William Denbrough." Beverly concludes. "Everyone always said he had this...scar on his palm. A _ baby _ just sat there, staring Pennywise in the eyes, unafraid, held up his hand, and… that was it. It's all hearsay, but I _ saw _ his scar on the train—I should've made the connection sooner."

"Well, _ that's _ clearly bullshit," Richie snorts. "I mean, _ of course _ he wasn't afraid, he was a baby. How was he supposed to know what the hell was even happening?"

Stanley rolls his eyes, “Whether or not you believe it doesn’t really matter. The fact is, Bill should not have survived that encounter with—with _ It_, but he _ did.” _

"—And I don't think he has any idea," Ben adds. "I mean, think about it. Don't you think he would've said something on the train?"

"Maybe he's just a private person," Eddie suggests, a small grimace on his face. "When I learned that stuff about my dad, I didn't want to just go around talking about it."

"Nah, he introduced himself to me as Bill Denbrough before he knew my parents weren't wizards or anything," Richie hums. First and last name and all. "Haystack's right. I don't think he knows shit."

"... Haystack?"

Richie ignores Ben. "—So, what, Big Bill's some… Wizard Jesus or something. What's it matter? He's just Bill now."

"It's as Mike said," Stanley sighs. "Even if Bill doesn’t have a clue about _ It _ or the war, it's something everyone else in the wizarding world still thinks about. I bet that's why Professor Maturin took him away before the feast—so he could hear the truth about everything from an informed adult instead of tittle-tattle from the other students."

“Right. Professor Maturin knows that not _ everyone _ feels so… grateful for what Bill did,” Mike affirms, “We have to keep in mind that Pennywise’s followers didn’t necessarily die with him. Those people—and their families— they’re still out there.”

The silence that falls over the group this time is decidedly more tense. The thing is, Richie can’t pinpoint _ why _ that is exactly. He looks to Beverly who is pointedly avoiding everyone’s gazes, staring down at her shoes instead.

Stanley is the one who speaks, after what feels like ages, eyeing Beverly before he speaks to the rest of the group, “It doesn’t _ matter _ what anyone else thinks of him. _ We're _ his friends now, aren’t we? Regardless of what _ any _ of us have or haven’t been told prior to this, we all need to treat him normally—exactly how we treated him before when we met him on the train. The last thing he needs is for us to act like he’s different when he’s not.” 

Richie nods to that. He hardly cared that Bill is some… _ savior of wizard-kind _ — even if, in theory, he should be grateful, he _ guesses _ . What he _ really _ cares about is that Bill Denbrough was his first friend. Bill Denbrough is someone _ good_. He laughs at Richie’s jokes, is just as confused about magic and the Wizarding world as he is, and would probably _ desperately _ need some real friends in the morning.

Not that he'd admit it out loud. No, he definitely was gonna rack his brain the rest of the night trying to come up with good jokes about Bill's newly discovered wizard-jesus status.

"We… Should probably get back inside," Ben suggests after awhile, looking towards the doors. "Before anyone gets suspicious."

No one bothers to argue with that, so the six of them head back inside, whispering goodbyes to each other as they split apart to their respective House tables to finally eat. Richie’s delighted to finally be able to dig into the feast laid out in front of them, piling his plate high with food. He and Beverly make idle chat over their meals, trying to ignore the bits of gossip about Bill that they overhear from the other students at the Slytherin table. 

Richie keeps his eye on the Gryffindor table, but Bill doesn’t come back; through dinner or dessert. Maybe it was for the best, he thinks, as he takes a bite of treacle tart. It wouldn’t be great for Bill to start his first night at Hogwarts hearing whispers about himself— this Professor Maturin guy clearly had the situation handled. 

As the banquet starts to come to a close, the first years are all gathered up to start heading to their separate Common Rooms for the night. Richie checks one last time at the Gryffindor table, but there’s still no sign of Bill. Beverly assures him not to panic about it, but he can’t help but worry as they exit the Great Hall and through the entire walk to the Slytherin Dungeon. 

He continues to worry about his friend until sleep finally takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're starting to get into the thick of the plotting here! Again, you can find us at rpluse and sedanley on tumblr to yell about the fic—and PLEASE leave comments and kudos if you're digging this! There's much more to come.


	5. Everyone But Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything changes--and nothing changes at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay getting this one up here! We've been holding onto this chapter for a while as we tried to write up ahead but we wanted to give it to you all as we keep writing. Enjoy!

There was no way, Bill thought, he could’ve managed to get in trouble already.

If it’d been about talking during the Sorting Ceremony, surely his new friends would’ve been asked away too. Was being in Gryffindor a problem? He hardly knew anything about the houses besides the basics from the song (a _ singing hat!_) and things his friends had mentioned. Like Stanley’s family mostly being Slytherins—and how excited he’d been to be placed in Ravenclaw instead. Was Ravenclaw the _ right _ house? Richie had been sorted into Slytherin, and evidently that was _ wrong _ —or at least _ odd_, because apparently only people with wizards for parents ended up in Slytherin. But Ben seemed excited about Hufflepuff, too, so it ought to be good, and—

Those thoughts are interrupted when Bill’s distracted at every turn by things like moving portraits, staircases, floating candles, _ ghosts_—it’s all got his brain in hyperdrive, bouncing back and forth between wonder and fear that he’s going to be kicked out of here before he can even see it all.

When they finally stop in front of a large, golden statue of a turtle, he brings himself to speak. “Excuse m-me, sir—am...am I in t-t-trouble?”

The older man laughs in a calm sort of way and Bill’s not sure if it makes him more or less nervous. “No, William, you’re not in trouble,” He replies, Bill hesitantly following the professor as he steps onto the shell of the turtle. “I just wanted to have a little chat with you before you started the school year. There’s a few things you need to know.”

That reassured Bill enough to continue to follow the older man up onto the back of the turtle shell. He looks up at the professor, confused, for a moment—before they start to rise up through the air, into his office. It’s beautiful, out of some story Bill’s sure he read. 

_ But isn’t that all of this, _ he thinks_, just some fantasy story come to life— _

“You can sit, William,” The professor’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts, not even realizing he’d spaced out staring at a set of unfamiliar glass vials. Bill makes his way over to where the other man sits, settling in the ornate, old chair he’d motioned towards when he called Bill over.

He runs his thumb anxiously over the ridged scar on his palm— it was a nervous tic he wasn’t sure he’d ever outgrow. He’d always thought it better, though, than showing his feelings on his face.

“How was the train ride, William?” Professor Maturin asks kindly, stirring a cup of tea with a wave of his fingers.

“—It w-was good. It didn’t feel a-a-as long as it was—I made a few friends. Learned s-some things.” The older man’s face is nothing but thoughtful and kind, despite Bill’s growing stress.

“I’d noticed that you found your way with a few other students. I’m glad,” He smiles, sipping his tea. “I know all of this was quite sudden for you, William—as it was for many other students who come from Muggle families—but I’m sure you’ll adjust quickly. Friends are extremely helpful with that.”

Bill can’t help himself, the admission pouring from his mouth before he can really think about it. “I’m a b-b-bit worried, if I’m being honest.”

That seems to pique Professor Maturin’s interest. “About what?”

“Well—n-none of my friends are in my house. In Gryffindor. Is that—did I d-do something wrong?”

The older man’s laughter fills the room again, not laughing at Bill the way kids did, sometimes, when he’d stutter, but just genuinely amused. “No, no, not at all, William. Your house doesn’t determine your future. It’s important you remember that.” After a beat, he adds. “And if you’re truly that concerned about it, perhaps you should discuss that with your friends? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

He’d felt silly, voicing the worry out loud—even more so with the professor’s reply—still, it was reassuring to hear. “I w-will. ...Thank you.” 

“It’s no trouble at all.”

The silence that falls over the room—interrupted only by the soft _ clink _ of the Professor stirring his tea again—is deafening. Even all the magical moving parts to the office aren’t enough to distract him anymore. It feels like hours pass before Bill finally allows himself to speak again. “—N-not to be rude, sir, but why _ am _ I h-h-here?”

Professor Maturin’s face lights up—as if he had completely forgotten why he’d brought Bill to his office in the first place. “Ah! Yes—” He takes another sip of his tea. “Actually, I wanted to tell you a story, William.”

Bill thinks it a _ little _ odd to take just one student away on the first night for something like this, but he’d always been a fan of writing, and stories, and was far too curious for his own good so he listens.

"Just over a decade ago, our world—the Wizarding World—was in the midst of a terrible war. This war had been ongoing for many, many years and was started by a man who called himself _ Pennywise _ . He’d grown a large following during that time—some who hoped to share in his power, some who feared him... Regardless of their reasoning, they were _ loyal_. Pennywise hoped to rule wizard kind with...an ancient, evil magic that feeds off of peoples’ fear.”

He pauses for a moment, as if to gauge Bill’s reaction for something, but nothing comes. Bill’s certainly horrified that such a man—that such _ magic _—could exist, but he remains otherwise unphased, waiting patiently for the Professor to continue. 

“The more that people feared him, the more powerful he and his magic became. There were those who tried to stand up to him—good, brave wizards, innocent people trying to help, despite their fears—but many of those who rose against him and his followers were slain."

“And with every mighty witch and wizard that people had _ hope _in was killed, the fear would grow. Pennywise continued to gain power. It was a vicious, seemingly unending, cycle. Ten years ago, we were losing the war, William.”

Bill understands war as a concept, but, until this moment, he’d hadn’t considered that wizards would have those sorts of conflicts as well. War felt like something you did with machines, not magic. “—D-did _ you _ fight him?” He inquires.

A sad smile crawls across the old man’s features. “I was tasked with keeping this school, and the children in it, protected. I’m grateful he never came here, that students were safe in my care. There are times I… wish I could have done more, but—they do say everything happens the way it is meant to, William.”

Bill nods. Maybe Pennywise hadn’t come to the school _ because _ Professor Maturin was here. Mike and Ben had spoken so highly of him, of how powerful he was—

“Though the war has long since ended, and Pennywise is gone, people are still damaged by what happened— still afraid. Most won’t even utter his name, choosing instead to call him _ It._”

“—It’s only a name, though. Why would people be afraid of a name?” Bill wonders aloud, worrying he sounds insensitive to something he hasn’t the slightest clue about.

Maturin doesn’t shame him, though—he only gives Bill a slightly amused smile. “It certainly is. But names have power. And Pennywise had quite a lot of power over people, to the point where the fear of him hasn’t truly diminished, even a decade after his defeat.”

The thought makes Bill shudder. “—How d-did you? Defeat him, I m-m-mean,” He asks.

“That’s the part where this story gets interesting, William,” He hums—and the boy wonders quickly how the man could think everything he's told him so far _ wasn’t _interesting.

“Ten years ago, Pennywise appeared in a peculiar place. Bristol.”

Bill’s heart stops in his chest. It's a coincidence. It had to be.

“He went into an average, Muggle family’s home—completely ignoring the sleeping parents—and went to kill their one year-old son.”

What?

“We still aren’t entirely sure why—why that home, why that boy—but what we do know, is that he failed to kill the boy,” Professor Maturin meets Bill’s wide, knowing eyes. “And not only did he fail, but Pennywise was gone after he tried. Dead, if you prefer the term. And the baby lived.”

“Now, I don’t know what you’ve read up on in terms of magic, William, but, a Killing Curse is Unforgivable for a reason. It has one purpose, and it _ does not _ fail. It remains a mystery why, on that night, with that boy, the curse backfired onto Pennywise, but just like that, the war was over. The boy, a savior.”

Bill doesn’t say anything—though there should be thousands of questions running through his head, for a moment, his mind is blank. He only waits to hear more. To get the confirmation he can feel creeping up his spine.

“It was as if a weight had been lifted off the entire world at once. Stories spread far and wide about what had happened—preposterous, silly tales about how a baby had sat in front of the Dark Lord Pennywise, unafraid, held his hand up to the Killing Curse, and defeated him—”

The boy hadn’t even realized he’d been subconsciously acting on his anxious tic of running his thumb over the scar on his palm until that moment.

“The entire Wizarding World spent the day raising glasses and toasting to William Denbrough. The Boy Who Lived.”

As soon as the suspicion is confirmed to Bill, the flood of questions sitting at the gate of his mind pours out—so quickly he’s dizzy sitting still. Maturin waits, then—clearly having expected this sort of reaction from the young boy. 

When he finally comes to, releasing a breath he’d been holding for far too long, Bill has a small plate of sandwiches and his own cup of tea in front of him.

He takes a slow sip.

“... I d-don’t remember any of th-that,” He admits, starting on the sandwiches, eating far too quickly—unsure if he’s stressed, hungry, or both.

The professor laughs again, “Of course not, William. You were only a baby. No one should expect you to remember such a thing... Though I’m certain you will get plenty of people who don’t quite understand that, asking you questions about that night. Questions about Pennywise, the scar on your palm—”

Bill lifts his hand a little close to his face to get a better look. He’d always just believed the scar to be from glass that had gotten lodged there—during the same car accident he’d come out of with his stutter as a toddler. He’d never thought twice about it, or looked at it closely, but analyzing it now, it...looked like any other scar.

“—I thought it difficult, William, to enter a world where everyone seems to know more about you than yourself. I truly tried to keep it all away from you as long as I could—that night, we erased your parents’ memories of the incident, to keep you and them safe. So you could grow up a normal child, far away from a world where every single person you’d meet would already know your name.”

“But, from that day, we knew who you were. What you’d become. That you belonged here. I knew I would get to see you at Hogwarts one day, William. And I’m terribly, terribly sorry this was kept from you for so long.”

There’s a part of Bill that thinks he _ should _ be angry, but he’s not. Overwhelmed, sure, but not...angry. “...Th-thank you for telling me n-now,” He finally replies, adding after a pause. “D-do I...Do I have to do a-anything? You said he—Pennywise, I m-m-mean—is dead.”

“No, no, William, there's nothing to be expected of you," He replies, a glint in his eye. "I’m only here to shed light on your past, something you had no control over. Your future is yours to make. And—” Maturin glances at an odd thing on his wrist Bill’s sure is meant to be a watch. “—I do believe, based on the time, your future currently involves getting to your Common Room for a good night’s rest.”

All things considered… Bill does like the sound of that.

He finishes the last of the sandwich, the hint of a smile on his face as he gets to his feet. “—Thank you again for the tea and sandwiches.”

“I did yammer on all through dinner, it was the very least I could do,” Maturin replies warmly. “If you have any more questions, please know that my door is always open, William.”

That night, Bill had made his way to the Gryffindor Common Room with the guidance of an older student who’d been out waiting for him—certainly on the Headmaster’s request. 

After such a day, he was far too exhausted to deal with what he’d been warned would be a mountain of questions from other students. So, ignoring the prolonged stares of some of the other Gryffindors, he'd briskly found his way into his room, changed into his pajamas, and went to bed.

When Bill awoke the next morning, his dreams were a distant, vague memory—left with nothing but a feeling of immediate restlessness and the desire, more than anything, to find his friends.

He dressed quickly, pulling on the new tie and sweater he’d gotten in bright shades of scarlet and gold and only half-tying his shoes before starting to make his way downstairs with the other crowds of students headed to breakfast. Bill wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but following after older students and keeping his head down eventually got him back to a somewhat familiar part of the castle.

“That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Can you see the scar?”

“He’s in _ our year _—”

“D’you think he remembers It?”

It's not like he's _ trying _to listen in to what other students say as he passes—they’re just not very subtle about it. A few people try to reach out or call out to him as he makes his way through the entrance hall, but he manages to quickly pass them with polite nods and waves, not wanting to get caught up.

He had to find them.

Did they know? Professor Maturin had said everyone in the Wizarding World knew who he was—so at least Stanley, Beverly, Mike and Ben did. Had Richie heard any of those wild rumors the headmaster mentioned? Had Eddie? Would they still want to be his friends after all this—especially considering they all had friends in their own houses, now?

Maybe he was holding onto their Losers Club too tightly. They were seven kids who happened to sit together on the train, but—that hardly meant they were obligated to remain friends for life, right? Maybe this was how they went their separate ways—

Bill stops in the entryway to the Great Hall, slightly watery eyes scanning the tables for any one of his friends—

And can’t help the relief he feels spotting them seated all together, listening intently to _ something _ Richie was explaining animatedly over breakfast. They’re all paying close attention, so it takes a moment, but Stanley catches his gaze first. There’s no hesitation in the warm smile he offers to Bill. It means more than the young boy can put into words.

“Hey!” He calls, pushing Richie a bit so he stops talking, attracting the attention of the whole group.” You can come sit with us!”

Bill’s face widens into a grin of his own, pushing back the anxious tears that had threatened to fall as he approaches the table. 

“It’s about time!” Richie says, patting the spot next to him, “I thought you’d never show up, mate.” 

Bill hesitates for just a moment, looking around at the group of them. Professor Maturin had advised that he should express his concerns to his friends, so he tries to put his words together carefully. "Y-you're sure? We can—we can s-still all be friends even th-though I'm over in G-Gryffindor and none of you a-are?"

Stanley’s gaze softens, “Of course we can, Bill. There’s nothing that forbids you from hanging out with people from other houses.” 

“We don’t care if you’re in Gryffindor and we aren’t. We’re friends now. All of us.” Beverly adds. 

Bill finally sits at that, more relieved than he'd like to admit. "How w-was the feast last n-n-night?" He asks. "I never made it b-back downstairs—"

After all the whispers on the way down, Bill can’t help but wonder who of his friends know about… Pennywise. The war. Him. According to Professor Maturin, everyone in the Wizarding World knew, so—at least Stanley, Beverly, Mike and Ben. Had they been told those odd rumors? Had Richie or Eddie heard anything at the feast about him?

“There was certainly a lot of commotion,” Stanley remarks, vaguely, “but it was the start-of-term and all, so it's to be expected.” 

Bill starts to pile some things—a few slices of toast and different jams, sausages, eggs—onto his plate as they continue talking.

“You did at some point get dinner though, didn’t you Bill?” Beverly asks, a touch of concern to her voice. He nods, toast half stuffed in his mouth already.

“Sammiches’nd tea–” He replies, muffled, laughing a little at the sound of his own voice. Richie laughs at him then, too—there was something about Richie Tozier’s laugh, like his smile, that was infectious. Mike comes next, unable to keep composed—then Beverly, Ben after her, Eddie, even Stanley— It wasn’t as if the whole thing was even that _ funny _. Maybe it was just the ease of being with this group. But god, it felt good. 

Someone clears their throat, interrupting them. Bill turns towards the sound, finding another student, likely their age, staring back at him with wide eyes. 

“You’re William Denbrough, right?” They ask, gaze darting to Bill’s hands and then back up, “Could I see the scar? You know, the one on your palm?”

Bill hadn’t ever wanted to be rude—he’d only rushed down and ignored those people because he was overwhelmed, and stressed about his friends. Plus, if he was being honest with himself, he still hadn’t entirely processed what he’d been told the night before. It was awkward and even more uncomfortable now. Why does he have to address the elephant in the room, and with some unknown stranger? He wishes it was like when he was walking through the halls and could just escape.

“Oh, h-hi—I—yeah,” He stammers out, taken by surprise. “Yeah, I’m—th-that’s me. Sure, I—” He picks up his left hand, awkwardly wiping it on one of the napkins on the table. “S-sorry, just—toast c-c-crumbs—”

“—That’s a rather rude request to make, don’t you think?” Stanley chastises, eyes narrowed at the other student. They shift awkwardly on their feet, but Stanley continues, “You don’t _ actually _know, Bill, nor have you even bothered to introduce yourself. So, why do you feel entitled to ask something so invasive?”

Bill's gaping as Stanley finishes speaking, his nose distinctly tinted pink as the student mumbles an apology and scurries away.

"—So—" He clears his throat, facing back towards the rest of the table, examining their expressions before continuing. "Y-you—you… _ all _ know, th-then?" 

The group nods, collectively—almost reluctantly.

“We didn’t want to bring it up first because we didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Beverly admits softly.

“—That and it doesn’t change anything, really, about all of us being friends.” Stanley insists.

Bill can feel a warmth growing in his chest. He was confident he’d hit the jackpot in the friends department.

“They explained it all t’me and Eds last night—” Richie chimes in next to him, continuing despite a sound of protest from Eddie on the other side of the table. “—But don’t expect any special treatment from me. You’re still just good ol’ Big Bill.” His tone is more genuine than his usually playful banter.

“—I a-a-appreciate it,” Bill manages to reply. “I—I didn’t know a-about any of it. I wasn’t t-t-trying to hide anything from you g-guys—”

“That’s what we figured. We’re not offended,” Ben reassures him. 

Eddie quickly adds, “Besides, even if you were, that’s… your personal life and all. We don’t need to be poking into it.” 

“It’s h-hardly my business,” Bill laughs. “I m-mean, can it c-c-count as just my business if I d-don’t remember any of it and h-had to have someone else t-t-tell me about it?” 

He holds his hand out on the table then—toast crumb free—showing the scar on his palm; one he’d always assumed had come from slicing his hand on a plain old piece of glass. Mike leans in to look, followed by Ben and Beverly, before looking up at Bill. “I th-thought it came from a c-c-car accident when I was a b-baby. Th-that’s how they said I g-g-got this stutter, too.”

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, Bill," Mike says softly, sounding a bit embarrassed.

"Th-there's nothing really to t-talk about," Bill shrugs, giving another glance to his palm. 

“Sure there is,” Richie interjects, “we all need to discuss why it is that Beverly is the _ only _ other person in this group who followed through on our agreement.” 

"_ What _ agreement?" Eddie asks. Bill resumes eating his toast, just as confused himself. 

“_ Seriously _ ?” Richie huffs, “None of you remember? It was _ right before _ we all got sorted. I said that we all had to aim for Slytherin.”

“Oh. You were serious about that?” Stanley questions, a wry smile on his face.

“The hat decides where we go, Richie, we can’t make choices.” Ben says.

Richie shakes his head, “That can’t be true because I wanted to be in Slytherin and that’s where Mr. Hat put me.”

“Yeah because clearly you _ belong there_—” Stanley starts to argue, but stops as the shrieking sounds of owls flood the Great Hall.

“What the _ bloody hell _ are they doing in here?” Richie exclaims, his debate with the others already forgotten. 

Mike smiles fondly as he watches the owls drop letters onto the tables in front of various students, “They’re delivering mail.”

“We’ve been here for barely a day, how could anyone _ possibly _ have mail already?” Eddie gapes. 

“You’d be surprised.” Ben comments as a wad of paper drops next to Mike's plate. The boy's face lights up as he unfolds it to reveal a newspaper—_ The Daily Prophet. _ Eddie's jaw drops as he notices the photos moving.

Bill’s attention, however, is drawn to Stanley as an envelope lands on the table in front of him. The other boy takes it into his hands, an eyebrow raised as he neatly tears it open. He pulls out a letter, eyes scanning over it quickly even as Richie jabbers on across from him.

Stanley looks disheartened as he reads and Bill can’t help but wonder why. As quickly as the expression crosses his face, though, it’s gone; a mask of composure already in place as he tucks the letter away and focuses back on the group.

"—Y-you okay, Stanley?" Bill pipes up, brow furrowed over his glass of pumpkin juice.

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s just from my father.” Stanley replies, vaguely. He doesn’t appear to want to discuss it any further than that. 

Bill catches the hint and drops the subject quickly. Before things can get uncomfortable, though, Beverly chimes in, changing the topic.

"So, is anyone thinking about trying out for Quidditch? I mean, First Years hardly make the team, considering we haven't really had formal flying experience, but—" She gives a pointed look at Stanley.

"Do you fly, Stanley?" Ben asks.

A hint of a blush rises on Stanley’s cheeks, clearly embarrassed at being put on the spot, “Oh, I’m alright—”

Beverly scoffs. "_Alright? _You're like a bloody bird, Stanley! I'd bet you could fly better than half of Puddlemere United's team last year—"

"Hey!" Mike cuts in, putting his newspaper down for a second. "What've you got against Puddlemere?"

“Nothing, but you’ve got to admit that most of their team is _ rubbish _ on a broom—”

“—That’s all well and good, but what on Earth is Quidditch?” Richie interrupts. 

“This’s Quidditch.” Mike flips open his newspaper, turning a few pages before handing it over to Richie; Bill follows Eddie’s lead and leans in to look, eyes following a _ moving photo _ of a bunch of wizards flying around on brooms, playing what he quickly gathers to be some sort of sport.

He’d been so caught up in things like potions and magic that his brain hadn’t processed the part of his letter that’d read—

_ First years are not allowed their own brooms. _

Right. Because wizards _ fly, _and apparently have a sport of it. 

“What’s it like...football, then?” Richie asks. 

“—Looks m-more like rugby, I th-think—” Bill says, trying to catch what the players on the page are doing with the balls they’re tossing around.

“—It looks _ dangerous _ is what it looks like,” Eddie adds, slightly horrified.

“Why is there more than one ball?” Richie questions, completely ignoring Eddie’s comment. 

Stanley raises an eyebrow, “Why wouldn’t there be?” 

“B-because it would b-be confusing with people trying to score g-g-goals with more than one b-ball?”

“No, no, you only score goals with _ one _ball; the Quaffle. The Golden Snitch is just points and catching it ends the game. And the Bludgers are batted away from your teammates and towards the opponents instead.”

“Sorry, _ what_—” Eddie screeches, cutting Ben off, but Beverly interrupts before the conversation gets even more confusing and out of hand.

“Clearly, Quidditch is different from your Muggle sports, but the point is, it’s played on broom, every house has a team, and _ Stanley— _” She brings her attention back to him. “—is very good on a broom, and should try out for Ravenclaw’s team.”

“A First Year hasn’t made a house team in over a century, Beverly,” Stanley replies plainly.

“So?” Beverly counters, “Be the first to do it in over a century, then. You like a challenge, don’t you?” 

Stanley bites his lip. He doesn’t appear to have an argument against that. 

Before the issue can be pressed further, an older Hufflepuff boy steps up to the group of them, a stack of parchment in his hands. "Morning! Hope you all had a good first night at Hogwarts—all First Years, yes—" He greets warmly, shifting through the pages, setting a few down to the table in front of each of them as he talks to himself. "Two Hufflepuff—hello again!—two Slytherin, one Gryffindor, and two Ravenclaw," He finishes. "Those are your schedules—class starts Monday. Usually it's today, but with the train coming in on Friday, you're fortunate enough to have your first weekend here to yourselves! If you need anything, any of us with Prefect badges—your house or not—will always be happy to help."

Bill takes the sheet of parchment in front of him—a timetable written out in red ink—eyes scanning over it as he takes in the names of classes. Defense Against the Dark Arts, Flying, Astronomy—he was still a bit in awe. 

On top of that, every class, it seemed, was shared with at least one other house—besides Flying lessons, which it appeared all First Years had together.

He's relieved—so much of his concern with being alone in his house had been about going through his classes on his own. The whole worry seems miles away now.

Richie sighs, “You know, with all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten that there’d be classes.”

“It’s Hogwarts _ School _ of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not Hogwarts _ Vacation Home _ of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Stanley comments, dryly. Beverly snorts.

“It’s too bad that classes won’t start up for another two days, though.” Mike says, sounding disappointed. Stanley nods his agreement. 

"But it does g-give us time to settle in and e-explore." Bill suggests.

"And find our way around so we don't get lost going to our first classes," Eddie adds, looking down at his schedule. "I mean, class in the _ dungeons_?"

"We sleep in the dungeons," Richie shrugs. "Pretty cool if y'ask me."

Eddie clearly _ did not _ think it was cool. It takes work for Bill to hold in his laughter at the expression on his friend's face.

“Well,” Stanley starts, finishing off his pumpkin juice and pushing his empty plate away, “I’m done with breakfast. If the rest of you are too, then we might as well get started learning the castle layout so we can be properly prepared for classes on Monday. I _ cannot _ be late, so I’ll need to make sure I know where everything is.” 

“Good point,” Ben says, taking the last few bites of his toast before starting to his feet.

Richie shovels the remaining bits of food on his plate into his mouth—and Eddie watches with mild disgust—before he says, around a mouthful, “Alright, _ nerds_.”

“Finish chewing first, Richie, that’s _ disgusting_—” Eddie cringes.

Bill takes his last piece of toast with him as he stands with the rest of the group, munching on it slowly as they continue to chatter away. He thinks to himself that he’s never looked forward to school quite as much as he does now. It might just be the magic. Or maybe it was because he’d already made such great friends.

Either way, he can hardly wait to see what this year has in store for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We love and appreciate all the love this fic is getting and can't wait to share more of it with you all! It was nice getting to write the Losers back together again this chapter.
> 
> Please feel free to leave comments and kudos (and subscribe for more!!!!) and reach out to us on tumblr at elhopperwheeler and iswearbill/aaron-hotchner if you have feelings/headcanons/thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us on tumblr at @janehopperwheeler and @sedanley! We're so excited you're coming on this wild 7 fic series journey with us! Come yell! Give us your thoughts and headcanons in the comments or on tumblr! Leave kudos or subscribe if you're excited for more!


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